


Laying In Wait

by InnerSpectrum



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, M/M, Pining, The Queen's Hidden Lounge, mystrade
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25829995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: The say "Good things come to those who...", and Detective Inspector Inspector Gregory Lestrade has waited a long time for the enigmatic Mycroft Holmes. Just as he was on the cusp of giving up a small miracle happened. Still, with the good comes the bad and Greg cannot shake the ominous feeling that tells him his world is about to rocked in more ways than one... And he is not going to like it...
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 46
Kudos: 83
Collections: The Queen's Hidden Lounge





	1. What The Morning Brings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fabricdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabricdragon/gifts).



> This short-ish story from Greg Lestrade's POV takes place in the world of [ "The Queen's Hidden Lounge" Collection ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Queens_Hidden_Lounge) by Fabricdragon and InnerSpectrum. You don't HAVE TO read the other stories to get this one, but it helps immensely.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a funny feeling, one he knows will not be humorous at all...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

Greg had pulled another early morning where he had gotten in before the cafés or the coffee cart opened. He absolutely did not want the coffee and the more than day-old pastries from the vending machine in the break room. He did not want to hear a word from Sally about missing breakfast. Again.

_A large cuppa and something sweet would hit the spot._

Greg decided even the coffee from the cart would not do and walked the extra blocks to the café which also had better pastries.

He let his mind drift to the other subject that has preoccupied his mind the past few days: Mycroft Holmes.

Few can compare to the Holmes boys in intelligence, but Greg knew he was not a stupid man himself. Neither Holmes brother would have been able to tolerate him otherwise. Especially, not Mycroft.

_Ridiculously intelligent, aloof, cultured, suave with a voice that can form glaciers, eyes that then cleave through it and words that cut to the core with a surgeon’s precision. Damn it all to hell!_

On one hand Mycroft was cold, kept his distance and was seemingly indifferent to him in person. On the other hand, Greg was no longer surprised when after a late night at work, take-a-way magically appeared in what Greg knew had been an empty refrigerator that morning. Thus, after a year, when it was certain that Sherlock Holmes would be occasionally consulting with the MET, and with him in particular, Greg noticed that a security detail had been assigned to him because of Sherlock. The detail, very much like the ones that attempted and often failed to tail Sherlock, never engaged directly with him. In the years since he’s known about them, there were five times Greg had lost a suspect who outran him, twice even with Sherlock on the chase; that is not their job. In fact, it was so rare he noticed their presence that he often forgot their existence.

So complete was their noninterference, that the past winter, without backup he investigated an abandoned warehouse on a inspired hunch. A door slammed closed behind and he somehow wound up trapped in a room with no windows and no mobile reception. He was alone and it was so cold that for the near hour he was in trapped, the temperature had dropped to the point that hole in the roof that had dripped with condensation when he first entered had refrozen into stalactites again and it was getting dark. Even then, they had not entered the room. He heard as they unjammed the door and left it slightly ajar. By the time his cold stiff bones reached the door and opened it, they had slipped back into the shadows. A black sedan awaited him. Grateful, he climbed into its empty warmth as its driver silently took him home. He was not in the least surprised to see his own car in its parking spot when he awoke the next the morning.

He called and texted Mycroft and thanked him profusely, but the Iceman feigned ignorance of the detail and the rescue in such a way that Greg knew it was an act. When Greg tried to thank him again they next met in person, Mycroft again demurred.

Now they had gone full circle. In the beginning he and Mycroft met six or seven times that first year. Slowly the dinners happened more often. At some point they became close to weekly, only to drop back to meeting a few times in the past year again. He could not understand it. In a fit of frustration, Greg had said to Mycroft that if he was not capable of giving all of him, he wanted none of him and included several choice words where he and his secret detail could go. 

_That had been a mistake._

The ride to his uncle’s farm, with Murphy in tow, was a couple of months after the outburst.

_No wonder Mycroft thought Murphy was my new love. That’s why the dinners had all but stopped. The idiot was trying to let me go! Oh, hell over Murphy!_

Greg smiled to himself at the memories of his laughter at Mycroft and at Murphy’s reactions. He outright grinned at a rare sign of the detail still attached to him. Even though the two had barely spoken while Mycroft unnecessarily martyred his own happiness for what he presumed was Greg’s, he had not cut Greg the detail out from his care in spite of the disadvantage.

 _The only disadvantage is that you won’t talk to me, Mycroft._ _The only time we speak now was in relation to work and/or Sherlock._ _You kissed me in a fit of jealousy and then disappeared again._ _Why?_

Greg had learned about the shooting of the concierge at Diogenes when John mentioned it passing a few nights afterward the event when they had met for a pint. John had sussed out that Greg was not dating anymore and why. John had called him several manners of idiot, not knowing who Greg was being an idiot over. And of course, Murphy, in his brutally honest way as always, had really let him have it.

> “You’re an arse, Frenchie. Go lose yourself in a bird…or a bloke for a fucking night. Or both. You're old, but you’re pent up. You can take two on …” Murphy rolled his eyes at Greg as he drained his pint and then signaled for another.
> 
> “Fuck you Murphy!” Greg shook his head.
> 
> It was the fifth time he and Liam Murphy had met up for pints since reconnecting. It has been an interesting professional détente between them. Greg understood Murphy was a decent bloke and though they pointedly avoided the subject, Greg was aware the eventually-to-be not quite a respectable businessman had ties to the criminal underworld, if not a criminal himself. As long as Greg could fake plausible deniability, Greg did not care. It was good to connect with someone who knew the detective inspector back when he was not much of a law-abiding citizen, himself.
> 
> Greg had been in a good mood and it took everything he had not to burst out in the news he had to share.
> 
> “Fuck me? Nope. Told you, I'm a giver and not since military. Doesn’t do anything for me. But when’s the last time you let yourself enjoy someone?” Murphy’s _the-devil-may-care-but-I-sure-as-fuck-don’t_ eyes narrowed on him before he quickly added, “Besides your own self?”
> 
> Greg took a sip of his own pint as answer. He _had_ gone on a couple of dates in the past year. Partly as a dare to himself. Partly to spite himself. Both were disasters as he spent most of the time comparing them to the incomparable Mycroft and quickly wanting out of the dates when they inevitably came up short. The charade that he wanted to be there was not fair to himself or them. Neither got so much as a kiss goodnight, let alone anything else more enjoyable to lose himself in.
> 
> _I’m wrong. That last date was well over a year ago! Christ!_
> 
> “Uh huh…” Murphy shook his head sadly at the silent confirmation. “Then it's past time you try to lose yourself in another… And another… Eventually, you’ll be so lost in someone else you’re not goi…”
> 
> Greg did not know what he did, but Murphy stopped and looked at him.
> 
> “Damn… I’m wasting my breath. What happened?”
> 
> “What are you talking about? Nothing happened.”
> 
> “Last time I saw you, you seemed like you were at least considering if you should think about trying to move on. Now you’re not even thinking about, thinking about it. You’re not ready to give up. So, what happened?”
> 
> “Have I, or have I not, repeatedly told you not to Sherlock me?” Greg grinned as he thought about exactly what happened.
> 
> “Have I, or have I not, repeatedly 1- given good advice and 2- not given two shits?” Murphy winked at the waitress who arrived with his new pint.
> 
> She rolled her eyes at Murphy and then looked to Greg as if to say _Oh please(!)_ before she placed Murphy’s new pint on the table and put the empty glasses on her tray.
> 
> “Can I get _you_ something, Detective Inspector?”
> 
> “I forgot you’ve been on the telly. Far cry from the East End idjit you used to be, eh?”
> 
> "Shush it, you."
> 
> It was not as though he was on the telly every week. In fact, until the high profile “Butcher” Brocks murders he solved a month ago, he had not done a televised interview in nearly a year. It was both a bane and an honor to be recognized for his work. This was one of the bane times as the waitress flirted. 
> 
> “Just another pint, thank you. Put it on this bastard’s tab,” Greg pointed at Murphy.
> 
> “Gladly. Let me know if you want anything else?” She gave him a wide smile.
> 
> The leggy red head before him only made him think of a different ginger with long legs he wanted.
> 
> “Will do.” Greg gave her a small polite nod and then grinned at Murphy’s mock hurt expression as she walked away.
> 
> “You’re not even trying. She must be into father figures!”
> 
> “Oi!” Greg threw a peanut at him, “Maybe it’s because I don’t look at her as if I already know the feel of her lacy blue knickers in my teeth?”
> 
> Murphy gave Greg a look before he slowly twisted in his seat to look at the woman as she worked another table. The skirt she wore was just thin enough that when she leaned over under certain lights her secrets were indeed revealed. Murphy turned back to Greg with an exaggerated lecherous grin and comically raised brow. “And you say Poncy says you can’t observe. I thought you would be one of those _love is blind_ types…”
> 
> “It does not make me blind, Liam. It simply makes me not care to act on what I do see.” Greg shrugged innocently, but he could not keep the grin from his face.
> 
> “Oh, you are too happy with yourself! I knew something happened! Spill it.” Murphy pulled his pint to him.
> 
> Greg wiped his fingers along his serviette on the table.
> 
> “You’re going to have a reaction...” Greg teased as Murphy lifted the pint.
> 
> “Yeah… And…” Murphy snorted derisively; his free hand gestured for Greg to stop stalling.
> 
> Greg waited until the pint touched Murphy’s lip and tilted to pour before he spoke. “He got jealous of you, pushed me against a wall and kissed the bloody hell out of me.”
> 
> Greg immediately lifted the serviette in his hands to guard against the beer that spewed from Murphy.
> 
> “You bloody fucking bastard!” Murphy choked out as he snatched the serviette from Greg’s hands and sopped up the spillage. “You’ve been sitting on that all fucking night just to spring it on me haven’t you?”
> 
> Greg slanted his head as though in serious contemplation of Murphy’s words before he outright sniggered unable to hold his laughter anymore, “We’ve only been here an hour mate, but uh… Yeah.”
> 
> “Fuck you!” Murphy laughed and threw the serviette back at Greg.
> 
> “Doesn’t do it for you, remember?”
> 
> “How the….? What? You’re taking the piss, mate, you HAVE to be!”
> 
> The utter befuddlement on Murphy’s face as it sank in was too much. Greg held his side as he tried hard not to howl with laughter. Tears streamed down his face from the effort.
> 
> “Talk now!” Murphy ordered.
> 
> Greg ran a finger from his free hand over his lip. He remembered that Murphy sat in front of him and barely stopped the wide smile that wanted to break out as he thought about the kiss.
> 
> Greg did not deny that he had imagined their first kiss would be a gentle near timid thing that he himself would have had to coax out of the Iceman.
> 
> The feelings that Greg had suspected, had hoped, had dreamed were still there in Mycroft, were. But the Iceman had kept them hidden deep until they exploded in a demanding kiss that Mycroft had poured all of his pent-up desire and frustration into. The unexpected force of Mycroft’s strength as he was unceremoniously shoved against the wall nearly floored him memory. And the feel of Mycroft’s body as it melded against his, once he got over the shock of it, and fervently wrapped his arms around Mycroft and returned the kiss with all the pent-up passion of his own...
> 
> _I certainly did not see that firestorm of a kiss coming, but Christ yes!_
> 
> He did not say all of that to Liam, but he told him enough of it.
> 
> “Oh, god! That is rich!” Murphy chuckled, “I can see how that could have been taken from an outside view, but ya, he deserved to be laughed at."
> 
> “We hadn’t spoken in a over two months and then he sees me with another man who gets all up close and personal with me on my Harley just as I decline a call a from him. Naturally he assumed the worst: that I found someone new. And he’s had _that_ green-eyed demon riding his coattails since then. When I realized what he was going on about and that it was over _you_?” Greg finished up; his own laughter had finally subsided, and he ended with a small shrug. 
> 
> “And you just walked away from him?” Murphy asked partially surprised.
> 
> “I had to. It would have been too easy to succumb. Can you see it? At our ages, grappling on a hospital bed and me a cop who’s been on the telly! Besides, I really did have court that morning.” Greg leaned back in his chair. “The timing of it, Liam. Just earlier that same day I was thinking about, just thinking about, whether I should again give up on him ever pulling his head out of his own arse. Then _that_ happened.”
> 
> He did not tell Murphy that he had not heard from Mycroft since that night. He knew Mycroft was there when Sherlock was released from the hospital into Watson’s care. Also known as, getting Sherlock out of the hospital before every caretaker on the floor temporarily forgot their Hippocratic Oath and lay harm on the infuriating man.
> 
> _That and whatever intrigue those two are up to now._
> 
> It was not until he had the thought that he realized the veracity of it.
> 
> Sherlock has been excessively snarky and yet evasive of late. He texted so much now it reminded Greg of Mycroft’s assistant Anthea. The personal assistant who played something of an airhead, but he knew was anything but. Sherlock was definitely up to something, something bigger than whatever Mycroft normally involved him in.
> 
> _They are a part of it somehow, I know it; whatever the bloody hell IT is…_
> 
> Nor did Greg tell Murphy about his growing sense of something foreboding on the horizon.
> 
> _Something a bit not good._
> 
> “Okay, he’s shown his hand by being jealous over little ol’ me.” Murphy dropped his head to the table at yet another burst of chuckles, before he continued, “So, now what? What do you want from him?”
> 
> “I know he’s worth all this shite I’m going through for him. I need to know it’s reciprocal, I guess. I want him to fight for me you know? Not in an unexpected fit of jealousy only to apologize for it right after. It needs to be in his logical way of thinking, of understanding that he not only can’t deny, but _won’t_ deny that he just might want me too. I need to know he thinks I’m as worth it for him as he is for me. He’s effectively restarted the clock and sped it closer to its end one way or another.”
> 
> “Whoa! Look who has found both bollocks and a spine.” Murphy saluted him with his pint. “Here’s to you not waiting another year because in six months if you’re still in manual labor I may be tempted to drastic measures to save your palm from callouses. Or remind you how to switch hands, that left arm looks like it’s lagging behind.”
> 
> “Arse! What drastic measures? And please remember I’m a cop.” Greg laughed; he already knew he would likely regret the answer.
> 
> “Now Frenchie, do I look like the kind of man who would ever do anything untoward to any officer of the law other than bring you paracetamol and water for the monster hangover you’ll likely have the morning after you’ve been pimped out to enjoy the tender mercies of our charming blue knickered server?” Murphy responded straight faced.
> 
> “In a heartbeat, you bastard!” Greg shook his head and deftly switched the conversation to the football match about to start.

Greg chuckled to himself as he thought about the conversation with Murphy. Back in his office, he hung up his trench and sat at his desk to enjoy breakfast. He sipped his coffee and pulled out his mobile. He had fully expected the messages to disappear at first, it would so be like Mycroft to do such, but the original was still there as well the screen shot he had captured of the text _just in case_. And all of the other texts.

He had not told Liam Murphy about the texts he received. He would not. Telling Murphy what jealousy had driven the Iceman to do was one thing.

This was something else. This was the same day he and Murphy met for pints and to watch a couple of football matches.

Greg grinned as he read the first message yet again.

››TEXT›› 10:45: I would like to be worthy of another spectacular moment with you Gregory. Someday in the future, if you are not currently amenable to such, let me change your mind. Someday soon, if you are. – MH

That was six days ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the conversation with Murphy Greg refers to the kiss with Mycroft happened in Chapter 12 of "The Life You're Living, The Life You'd Like"


	2. Six Days Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the midst of a feeling of imminent unease, Greg cannot help but feel good and take the win of an overdue contact from a certain government official.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short-ish story from Greg Lestrade's POV takes place in the world of [ "The Queen's Hidden Lounge" Collection ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Queens_Hidden_Lounge) by Fabricdragon and InnerSpectrum. You don't HAVE TO read the other stories to get this one, but it helps immensely.
> 
> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

Greg was on his way to a meeting with the chief superintendent and a few other DIs when his mobile vibrated. He had finally gotten around to personalizing text numbers and knew the message sender by the pattern.

_Mycroft._

Normally he might have considered leaving it until after the meeting, but this is the first time Mycroft Holmes had reached out since apologizing for the kiss nearly a week ago.

_I need to know!_

Greg pulled out his mobile and internally grinned at the message.

››TEXT›› 10:45: I would like to be worthy of another spectacular moment with you Gregory. Someday in the future, if you are not currently amenable to such, let me change your mind. Someday soon, if you are. – MH

_It took him nearly a week to work up the courage to text that to me? Oh, I’m amenable, but I not that easy Holmes._

››TEXT›› 10:47: I’m sorry. WHO is this? – GL

››TEXT›› 10:48: I suppose I deserved that after such a wait. Please don’t make me repeat myself. – MH

››TEXT›› 10:49: I did not ask for repetition. I asked for identification. – GL

››TEXT›› 10:50: I am NOT sending a selfie! – MH

Greg nearly tripped over himself in his laughter at the visual of Mycroft that appeared in his mind complete with duck lips and fingers crossed in gang signs.

››TEXT›› 10:51: Then I would know with a certainty that you are under duress for such proclamation and will be forced to contact She Who shall Not Be Named. – GL

››TEXT›› 10:51: You are being utterly ridiculous, Gregory Lestrade. – MH

››TEXT›› 10:52: Well you’ve proven you have indeed contacted the correct person; your identity however remains elusive. – GL

››TEXT›› 10:56: Between 2:30am and 3am last Thursday I did something impetuous and wonderful and altogether frightening. I cannot be more precise in time for the wonder and the shock of it stayed with me for some time before I could think to mark the occurrence of the most spectacularly honest moment between us in all the years that we’ve known each other. – MH

For the exacting Mycroft Holmes to not know something down to the millisecond was astonishing on its own. That he admitted to be so shook added to it. That kissing him, and being kissed by him in return, was the cause? Greg stared at his mobile in wonder.

_Christ Mycroft!_

››TEXT›› 10:57: Is that identification to your satisfaction? – MH

“Lestrade? Anytime you care to join us?” The chief superintendent stood at the door.

Texting with Mycroft Greg had forgotten the conference room was a glass wall. Everyone could see him standing outside of it with God only knew what insipid smile was on his face.

››TEXT›› 10:59: I’m coming, yes! – GL

_OH FUCK!_

“Coming sir!” Lestrade quickly put his mobile away and headed into the meeting.

~~~~

››TEXT›› 11:09: Looking at the time, your calendar and the sudden lack of immediate retraction I will presume that was directed at CS Ahlers and you will not see this text until later. If I am recognized at last can we meet tomorrow for a long overdue dinner and conversation? One where I promise no work and/or brother related subject will be brought up for conversation by my lips. – MH

_He’s correct, it’s half noon and I’m just seeing it._

“Lestrade! Gotta minute?”

Greg just barely curtailed the grin that wanted to spread widely across his face. He looked up as DI Hopkins called out to him as he exited the conference room.

_Damn! I need to answer him back, but not in front of people._

“Hey Stella, what can I do you for?” Greg put the mobile away as waited for her to catch up to him.

“I think we need a coffee after all of that. Don’t you?” Her voice was light casual, but not the way se glanced around at her fellow officers.

_Okay. She wants to talk to me, but away from here._

“You know I can always do another cuppa. But not the break room swill right now. Care for a stroll up the street? By the way, great collar on that Essex case.”

“Great idea!” She smiled gratefully, “And thanks. Your advice to look at the Marketer’s brother, in spite of His Nibs, was sound.”

“And His Nibs says it’s never twins.” Greg chuckled at the oft told mantra from Sherlock as they headed for the lifts.

The two had dated briefly fresh after Greg’s divorce. That was not accurate. She also was coming out of a nasty relationship. They were two consenting adults, each was a port in the storm to the other, who maintained their friendship and professional relationship with no one else the wiser when the worst of their personal storms was over. Well, no one other than Mycroft and Sherlock; which the younger who wisely kept whatever snark was about to fall from his lips at bay with the aim of a sharp elbow from his brother, when they both deduced it.

The two colleagues chatted about work and family as they picked up coffee and take-away lunch until they were a block from NSY on the return.

“Okay, Stella, what gives?” Greg stopped walking and turned to her, curiosity had got the best of him.

“Honestly, I feel kind of silly now that I’ve gone all cloak and dagger.” She winced slightly. “It’s likely nothing…”

“Stella…” Greg coaxed.

“My ex brother-in-law is a cop in the EU. We still get on despite _him_. He was asking questions… no fishing is more like it…” She stopped for a moment to gather how thoughts. “There are ‘stories’, his words not mine, that there has been ‘movement’ from underground sources. He does not know exactly what but says the last time hints of such chatter came about, within a month the shake-up in our Parliament and the drop in stocks happened. I was just… Because you used to sort of have contacts with people there… You know… Never mind…”

He knows her asking now is in relation to the meeting they came from. After the known hot topics, the chief superintendent had also in very vague terms ‘not asked’ if anyone heard anything new. Hopkins had given Greg a look then, but he had dismissed it. No one had reported anything unusual, including himself. He was not about to stand in front of his colleagues and say he has had a bad feeling the past couple of weeks. That was all he had after all, feelings, nothing solid. And if he’s learnt nothing else from the Holmes boys, and his own experiences, it is to keep such to himself until he had something concrete.

 _Hopkins coming to me now is hardly concrete, but certainly more gravel for the mix. Still, whatever this ‘movement’ is, involves the big boys. She’s talking international politics. Someone I_ ‘…used to sort of have contacts with…’ _? Damn, she means Mycroft._

Greg has a very good idea of who Mycroft is, or to be less precise, what, Mycroft does. There is not a true title for it. He is aware that some of his smarter colleagues like Donovan, Hopkins and as much of an arse as he can be, even Anderson is cognizant of the pull Sherlock Holmes has that is at a paygrade level much higher than theirs. It was why they often looked the other way and put up with the genius’ foibles. It made several cops at the Met somewhat complicit in having Sherlock Holmes’ assistance from time to time. Still, Greg always publicly maintained the fabrication of the hated older brother who occupies a minor office in the British government. He used it now.

“As you said Stella, I _used to sort of have_ … Even when I did, it was not that type of access. He is a minor cog in the wheel. Hell, my own meagre stocks took something of a hit when all of that came down.” Greg started to walk towards NSY again, “I get what you’re not asking. I have no answers. We’re just going to have to wear a lot of red shirts with brown trousers while we wade through whatever bloody shite they throw at us, and do our jobs as we always do.”

“Oh, that’s a disgusting analogy!” Stella cringed and chuckled.

“But apt.” Greg shrugged and chuckled himself.

“But apt…” Stella agreed.

Greg pretended he did not notice her visual scan of the area as they entered the building and knew she reciprocated as he had done the same, that bad feeling looming over everything again.

He looked at his mobile again after they parted ways at the lift.

››TEXT›› 11:09: Looking at the time, your calendar and the sudden lack of immediate retraction I will presume that was directed at CS Ahlers and you will not see this text until later. If I am recognized at last can we meet tomorrow for a long overdue dinner and conversation? One where I promise no work and/or brother related subject will be brought up for conversation by my lips. – MH

››TEXT›› 1249: You do seem -vaguely- familiar…? – GL

Greg grinned at the visual of Mycroft’s raised brow at the reading of the text.

››TEXT›› 1251: “-vaguely- familiar…?” – MH

››TEXT›› 1253: Do you so frequent hospitals in the middle of the night and are thus assaulted? – MH

››TEXT›› 1255: Regrettably yes to the first part, you know this. – GL

››TEXT›› 1257: And to the second? – MH

››TEXT›› 1259: I am not aware of any assault that occurred on the night in question, which again leads to query of your identity. – GL

››TEXT›› 1259: Though I do concede to sin from my lips. – GL

››TEXT›› 1301: O trespass sweetly urged! – MH

_I knew he would get the Shakespeare reference._

››TEXT›› 1303: Then give me my sin again. Perhaps tomorrow, after dinner. – GL

››TEXT›› 1301: That I shall say good day till it be morrow then. – MH

~~~~

Greg looked at his watch and smiled as he made a noticeable dent in his paperwork. He had plans for the local and watching a couple of games with Murphy in another hour and plans for dinner with Mycroft tomorrow. 

_The Gods do smile upon me. Now if only can only shake this feeling of all hell about to break loose._


	3. Interruptus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The universe seems determined to get in the way...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short-ish story from Greg Lestrade's POV takes place in the world of [ "The Queen's Hidden Lounge" Collection ](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/The_Queens_Hidden_Lounge) by Fabricdragon and InnerSpectrum. You don't HAVE TO read the other stories to get this one, but it helps immensely.
> 
> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

Greg was speaking with one of the forensics photographers, only half listening to Sherlock who was on a rant to Sally who had mocked him a few minutes ago. He would have intervened, but Greg had yelled at Sally and Anderson not even a week ago to shut their mouths when it came to Sherlock. The two never seemed to learn not to give him ammo, he can deduce enough on his own. The genius was on a roll and usually it was best to let him run out of breath and get the snark out of his system so they can move on. Something was different this time. John had quietly called Sherlock’s name twice in that subtle way he had to check him, but Sherlock was not listening.

Greg’s head popped up when Sherlock dropped a nasty salvo.

_He did not just say that!_

He knew he had heard correctly when he heard Donovan’s shocked gasp and saw her face. Sherlock had snarked one time too hard, one time many and nearly brought Sally to tears.

“ENOUGH!” “SHERLOCK!” Greg and John roared simultaneously.

“Get out!” Greg glared at Sherlock.

“What?” Sherlock looked to him surprised.

“You’re off the case, Holmes. Get off my crime scene.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, not believing him, “Lestrade seriously…”

Greg saw red! “Shut the fuck up!”

Greg took little satisfaction in seeing Sherlock’s momentarily stunned face in reaction to his vehemence. He was too angry, “I have had enough of you running rough-shod all over my team. Oh, I understand we are not up to the mental capabilities of the Great Sherlock Holmes, but we are NOT the imbeciles you enjoy making us out to be. We got our jobs done without you before and we may not be as fast, but we will get it done without you again. We are not your bloody whipping posts, Sherlock. Nothing, absolutely _nothing_ Donovan has ever said to you warranted what just came out of your mouth! I don’t know what has crawled up your arse and died there of late, and frankly right now I bloody don’t care! I am fucking DONE with your shite! Do you hear me? DONE! Get the fuck off my crime scene, Holmes, or I will have you arrested for trespassing.”

When it looked like the genius was about to speak again, Watson must have known something foul was about to drop. John quickly spun on Sherlock and stood toe-to-toe with the detective, his index finger centimeters from the taller man’s face.

“Zip it!” His voice pulled full army captain around him that brooked no argument what-so-ever as the glared up at the man. “ _Now._ ”

Sherlock glanced around at the very angry faces that looked at him. He looked at John’s silent unforgiving censure. He turned and defiantly walked away. John gave Greg and Sally a curt apologetic single nod of his head before he followed the man off the scene.

Greg had the odd sensation of watching Lucifer being cast from heaven **1**

 _Lucifer was an angel in his own right after all_ …

Greg quickly rejected the thought at the realization that he would be an angel in this analogy as well. 

_We both fight for good, but neither of us are divine._

“Sal, can you go check if the forensics team in back is about done?” Greg looked to his partner as though nothing happened.

_She needs a moment._

“Sure, Greg. On it…” Sally gave him a tremulous but grateful smile of thanks and walked away.

Greg waited as he turned back to the photographer who wisely found things to number and photograph. He winced when he looked around and saw the mass surveillance cameras.

_Bloody hell! He’s going to know I cursed out his baby brother within fifteen minutes, if that long. So much for tonight’s dinner._

Forensics and pathology had all the evidence bagged and tagged a couple of hours later. Greg as usual took one more look around the scene before he left. There were not as many people around. He was not surprised when he mobile pinged with _that_ pattern.

››TEXT›› 1603: If you are concerned, do not be. I will see you at 19:30. – MH

_Of course, he would know I wondered about it…_

››TEXT›› 1603: You’re not mad I publicly blasted him? – GL

››TEXT›› 1605: Going by the expressions of those around him, I am sure he deserved your censure. – MH

››TEXT›› 1605: I am not happy, but I am aware my brother can try the patience of saints. I am sure the MET had no chance against him” – MH

››TEXT›› 1607: Are you saying I’m not a saint? – GL

››TEXT›› 1607: It took you this long to put him in his place, Lestrade. I admit I had begun to wonder. However, your display of anger with him today was sufficient verification of divinity’s lack. – MH

››TEXT›› 1609: Hey, Christ yelled at the Pharisees. – GL

››TEXT›› 1609: Did you just compare yourself to be as divine Christ? You? A God-fearing man? Blasphemous. – MH

If Mycroft did not abhor the use of emojis Greg just knew at least one smiley face would have followed that.

››TEXT›› 1611: I don’t know… When Sherlock left, I had kind of fancied he looked like Lucifer when cast from heaven. So, it fits? And why are we texting about this when we will see each soon? – GL

››TEXT›› 1613: Because a promise is a promise, Gregory. I’ll see you in a few hours. – MH

Greg smiled remembering the text from the day before.

_“One where I promise no work and/or brother related subject will be brought up for conversation by my lips.”_

››TEXT›› 1621: Postscript: It is not the daughter. – MH

››TEXT›› 1623: PS: Correct, it’s the ex-daughter-in-law, thanks for playing ;) – GL

~~~~

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft whispered his first words since he rose from his seat.

Dinner had been wonderful. Greg was reacquainted with sides of Mycroft he had not truly enjoyed in nearly a year. The quick dry wit. The cutting snark as he deduced the diners around them. His outstanding intelligence as he broke down the subconscious behaviors of tachykinesis **2** and how he used it when he read people. It was the most at ease Greg had felt in a couple of weeks, that nagging susurrus of doom gone.

And then a diner at the table behind Mycroft started to choke.

It was with a sense of pride that Greg watched as Mycroft snapped into action, deduced the man and immediately delivered the Heimlich Maneuver. A quiet murmur quickly spread in the restaurant as the scene unfolded. After the third abdominal thrust, the man wheezed and the much too large chunk of food was dislodged. The man patted Mycroft’s arm, able to breathe again and turned towards Mycroft. The Iceman’s sudden expression of repulsion as he tried to move from the man was the only warning, but it was too late. 

Greg had forgotten that some people vomit after receiving the Heimlich Maneuver and from the files of No Good Deed Goes Unpunished, Greg then watched in horror as the man dislodged the rest of his meal.

On Mycroft.

The quiet murmur became anything, but as nearby patrons and staff reacted in a flurried mix of gasps of surprise and disgust, apologies from the man, his tablemate and restaurant staff who offered assistance to both men.

And in the middle was an all too silent Mycroft, his face unreadable except for his eyes. The fastidious man at a loss to mess upon his person. 

_Oh shite!_

Greg pulled out his mobile and sped dialed the last number he ever expected to call.

“What happened?” Anthea answered without preamble.

“On speaker. Some bloke vomited directly on Mycroft.”

“On Mr. Holmes directly, or just on his clothes?”

Greg picked all the clean serviettes in reach and approached Mycroft. 

A busboy had kneeled and started to help. 

“Don’t touch him!” Greg snapped. The man recoiled as though burned. Any other time Greg would have noticed and apologized. Not now, he focused solely on Mycroft. Though he had never touched Mycroft like this before, he somehow knew that only familiar hands should touch him now. 

“Only his clothes. Mostly his suit jacket. He’s gone silent on me and I don’t have the means to contact his driver for pickup. I know the beginnings of one when I see one, he’s moments from a panic attack if I don’t get him out of here. We do not want town and sundry as witness if he does.” 

“Clean what you can. I’ll contact the driver to meet you out front. One moment.”

Greg put his mobile down and swiftly, but silently wiped the puke from Mycroft’s jacket with the serviettes, took it from his shoulders, turned it inside out and folded it over his arm. 

As he waited on Anthea Greg gently wiped away what had touched on Mycroft's trousers and shoes. Once done he picked up his mobile, grasped Mycroft’s hand and led him away. The tight grip that took hold of his hand in return was his only clue that something in Mycroft was there. 

“Mr. Holmes!” Arturo the owner caught them at the door and offered apologies, but there was something in the man’s voice that read wrong to the policeman.

Greg innately understood then exactly what Mycroft meant about power in that moment. 

_As though what happened was of your doing? Stop it. Don’t have time for your pandering!_

“Not now!” Greg moved in front of Mycroft that effectively blocked Arturo’s access to him. “Mr. Holmes needs to leave. If someone can bring us our coats, that would be great. Excuse us.”

“Yes, Mr. Lestrade.” Arturo stepped aside. Greg saw the look at the hand holding as they passed. Greg raised a brow that all but dared him to say something as they stepped outside. 

Anthea came back on the line. “The driver is Edgar. He’s in the car park in the rear. He’ll be out front in a minute. Thank you, Gregory.” 

“Thanks Anthea.” Greg rang out in slight awe. That was the first time he could recall the woman calling him by first name.

“Mr. Lestrade? Mr. Holmes?” Arturo came out carrying their coats and Mycroft’s umbrella. 

“Thank you.”

Greg moved to let go of Mycroft’s hand, but Mycroft’s grip tightened.

“Hey, it’s cooler out here now that the sun has gone down. You need your coat. Can’t put it on like this…” Greg lowered his voice and cajoled, “I’m right here. Let me get it from Arturo and put it on over your shoulders at least. Can you do that?”

The grip tightened almost painfully for a moment before it lightened. Greg gave an internal sigh of relief as he stepped to Arturo who gave Greg their belongings and a bag to put the soiled jacket in. Greg gave his thanks and walked back to Mycroft.

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft whispered his first words since he rose from his seat to help the choking man. 

“You’re welcome.” Greg placed Mycroft’s coat on his shoulders, then put on his own. 

“Ah, here we go…” Greg gestured to the sedan as it pulled up and the driver, Edgar climbed out. 

“Good evening, Mr. Lestrade. I am Edgar.” he held out his hand for the bag Greg held. 

_Oh! Of course, she told him._

The driver studied Mycroft as he took the bag, “A change is available, if desired, Mr. Holmes.”

Perhaps it was the formality, perhaps it was the cool air refreshing him, but it was interesting to witness the icy walls go up.

“No, that won’t be necessary, Edgar. I can make do until I arrive home. We will drop off Mr. Lestrade, first.” Mycroft’s voice was not quite its usual smooth crispness, but it was getting there. 

As Edgar took the soiled jacket to the boot, Greg started to reach for the door. Mycroft’s hand whipped out to stop him.

“Don’t.” Mycroft stepped to the rear door, opened it and held it ajar. “Biometrics and code. The engine is engaged. Any prints other than mine, Anthea or Edgar’s and it locks down. Since we’re all outside of the vehicle, not a good idea.”

_And he’s back._

Mycroft climbed in after him. 

“I’ve seen a drugged out Sherlock upswallow on you. It did not have that effect. Are you going to tell me what happened in there?” Greg asked gently as the car pulled into the streets. 

“Someday perhaps.” There was the tiniest hint of amusement in his voice and Greg internally groaned. 

_Damn! I brought his name up tonight! Mycroft kept his word._

“But not tonight?”

“No, not tonight.” Mycroft gave a shiver that Greg knew was not from the autumn air of the open window on his side. “Memories are tricky things, Lestrade.” 

_There’s that formality again._

“That they are.” Greg conceded no more on the subject would be said tonight, but enjoyed the implication that there will be other nights.

“Though I know it is no one’s fault. I do apologize for the ruined evening and to thank you again for getting me out of there. It was…close.” Mycroft continued to look out his window as his hand slid palm down to a mid point between them on the car seat.

Greg knew it was an invitation.

_Palm down to play it off if I reject him. As if..._

“I would not say ruined…” Greg placed his hand atop of Mycroft’s who then turned his over and interlocked their fingers. “Eventful, but not ruined.”

The two rode and held hands in companionable silence for a while before Greg spoke again.

“Hey, why didn’t you tell me Hell is about to become an ice-skating rink?” 

“Pardon?” Mycroft turned to him at the non sequitur. 

“She Who Shall Not Be Named called me by my formal first name.” Greg looked out of his window, but he knew Mycroft saw his smirk.

“No, the air conditioning has merely turned on to bring it down a few notches. When she deigns you worthy of her non-threatening touch, is when Hades will preside over winter recreational activities in his domain.” Mycroft gave the hand he held a light squeeze grateful for the levity easing the moment.

For a man not given to outward displays of emotion, Mycroft Holmes’ snarky dry wit, his care for Sherlock and the lack of hesitation to aid someone in need had all been on display throughout the day. Greg felt honored to see so much of the man and not just the secret government operative. He was not quite ready to openly admit the other things he felt as the remainder of the ride was quiet. Gentle hand squeezes and thumb play their only communication until the sedan pulled up to his building.

_How much over the speed limit did they bloody drive to get here before us?_

“I guess it’s a good thing I took the Tube tonight and did not have to worry about my car.” Greg deadpanned seeing his car, formerly parked a block from the restaurant a couple of hours ago, already in its assigned spot. 

“A good thing indeed.” Mycroft concurred completely stone-faced.

“It seems each time we go out we’re doomed to Dinner Interruptus of late.” Greg sighed reluctant to move.

“Then I propose that next time we do not go out.” Mycroft looked to him, his grey eyes full of hope.

“What do you mean?”

“Come to my London townhouse for dinner tomorrow.” It was not phrased as a question, but Greg heard the unspoken plea. 

Reluctantly Greg released Mycroft’s hand and stepped out of the sedan. He flexed his fingers at the loss of Mycroft’s touch. On a whim, he did not head for his front door. Instead he walked around the back of the sedan to Mycroft’s side. He heard the window being lowered fully as he approached.

“Gregory?” Mycroft leaned forward, his face almost out of the window, “Is there someth…?”

The end of the question was swallowed in Greg’s soft kiss.

Mycroft stuttered for a moment at the contact, then reached out and held Greg gently by the neck as he returned the kiss. Unlike their first kiss, this was soft and gentle. Unhurried, yet no less passionate as both leaned away breathless.

“When it’s just you and I, don’t let me walk away from you without a kiss ever again.” Greg caressed Mycroft’s cheek enjoying the feel of the light stubble.

Neither man moved for a moment.

“Gregory… I… I MUST get out of these clothes. I can _smell_ it!” Mycroft almost whined.

“I’ll see you tomorrow. Your place.” Greg laughed and stepped away.

“Tomorrow. My place.” Mycroft echoed.

Greg tapped the roof of the car in the pattern he knew Mycroft used that translated to _Let’s go_ and enjoyed Mycroft’s look of pleasant surprise as the sedan pulled away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> Greg refers to the classic art by Gustave Dore:[ Lucifer cast from Paradise ](https://raivenne.files.wordpress.com/2020/08/gustave-dore_lucifer-cast-from-paradise-lost.jpg)  
> Return to paragraph^
> 
>   
> Tachykinesis – fleeting unconscious behaviors, like a slight twitch of a person’s head or an askance facial expression, that happen so fast that the brain may not immediately note it but the subconscious does.  
> Tachykinesic reactions, though transitory, reveal true sentiments precisely because they are so automatic. By their very nature, tachykinesic behaviors reveal information that the person performing them may not want us to know, especially if the individual is concealing fears, struggles, and anxieties or pretending to be cool under pressure. The unveiling of true feelings or sentiments can give us an advantage in understanding what others are experiencing so that we can be more empathetic or discerning.
> 
> Return to paragraph ^


	4. Yes, No, Maybe So

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tired of dinner being interrupted when they go out, Mycroft invited Greg over to his London townhouse. They should finally be able to get through a dinner in peace, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade had no illusions when it came to Mycroft and his wealth. He and John figured out long ago, that while Watson helps Sherlock in a lot of ways, financial was not one of them in spite of the image given otherwise. Mycroft on the other hand never gave off an image of anything other than a man of means. Greg KNEW Mycroft Holmes was wealthy. Still, none of it prepared him for the Knightsbridge address Mycroft had texted him.

He knew the neighborhood existed, that was all. Never in his many years of police service had he had call to enter what was arguably one of the most elite streets in London. Elite enough that even he knew that had he not been pre-identified to armed police officers in security huts at either end of the street the estate, officials who control the bollards that sink into the ground would not have allowed his crap of a car to enter such hallowed ground. Too many years of working with the Holmes boys made him very aware of the cameras that followed him. He was almost, _almost_ tempted to pull up in front of the wrong address just to see what would happen.

_We can’t seem to finish a dinner, don’t do something so stupid one does not even start, Lestrade._

From the outside of the building it looked pretty much like any well-kept townhouse, just larger. Greg looked up at the multi-story structure.

_So much larger._

Greg raised his hand to ring the bell when the door was opened by a tall wiry woman in dark slacks, a bright flowery print top and sensible shoes. Her black and silver streaked hair was pulled back in a loose bun. Her jewelry, like her make-up was light and tasteful.

“Good evening Mr. Lestrade. Security announced your approach. I am Clemmons, Mr. Holmes' chief of staff for his properties, do come in.” She held a small tablet in one hand and Greg could see a view of himself at the door. His eyes flicked to the barely seen camera that recorded him. He noted her little smirk at his notice of the camera.

_She’s not trying to hide it. She wants me to know I’ve been recorded having been here. I’d bet what little savings I have she’s former SIS._

“Good evening Ms. Clemmons,” Greg sized up the woman as he entered, “Why do I feel like, if you wanted to, I would be on the floor hogtied before I could get two words out?”

“Just Clemmons is fine. Because Ms. Anthea is correct, you are not anyone’s fool and not one sleep on.” Clemmons smiled politely. She held out her hand, “May I have your coat, Mr. Lestrade?”

“Just Gregory is fine, or Lestrade if you insist, Clemmons.” Greg handed her the bag he carried, removed his trench and gave it to the woman. He refused to react to her slightly less than subtle scrutiny of him on display.

_She’s not doing that to intimidate, just sizing me up._

“Mr. Holmes asked that you join him in the kitchen. This way.” She gave him back his bag and folded his trench over her arm as she led him partially the way until they reached a cloak cupboard. A sidebar across from it held several framed family photos.

While she hung his trench he could not help but pick up a framed photo what was definitely a smiling Mycroft as a young teen, a colorful crochet throw was around his shoulders. An even younger cherubic Sherlock in a pirate hate laughed with him. Both wore wellies as they splashed in a stream.

_My goodness will you look at them!_

A gentle throat clearing behind him made him quickly place the photo down and face Clemmons as she pointed towards the rear of the home. “The kitchen is straight ahead past the music room and the lift on your left. Enjoy your evening.”

“And you enjoy yours, Clemmons.”

_Wait…did she say music room and lift?_

The question was answered as he passed them. The main lights to the music room were off, but soft canned lights illuminated the stately white grand piano and its bench. The lift was located next to it.

He continued in the direction indicated. It took a moment to realize the fading footfalls he heard behind him were of Clemmons going down the stairs they had passed and knew she lived there.

_Of course, a place like this must have live-in staff. They're all probably ex-military or agents or something._

The overwhelming impression of what he had seen so far was very much like its owner. A place of tasteful reserved old-world feel, in its stately columns, and marbled floors. Still, there was a surprisingly warm elegance in its lighting and colors.

It left him unprepared for the cold, near sterile feel of the gray industrial kitchen. The gleaming stainless appliances easily would have been at home in a professional restaurant setting. The only thing more surprising was the sight of Mycroft Holmes himself.

Mycroft Holmes himself, at the kitchen island, in rolled-up shirt sleeves, kneading dough.

_Nearly a decade of knowing you and this is the most relaxed and casual I have ever seen you!_

Though Mycroft still wore his waistcoat, his tie was loosened and the first couple of buttons of his shirt were opened. Greg had guessed the man was a little hirsute but seeing the evidence of light ginger hair on his lightly freckled forearms and peeking out over the undershirt felt almost illicit to see.

Greg watched utterly mesmerized by Mycroft’s forearm and hand muscles as they worked the wet sticky dough. His belly did a little flip and Greg knew it was not because he was hungry for the delicious scents smelled.

On the counter were small bowls of meats, cheeses, various chopped vegetables and a bowl of cherries.

_He cooks! And he’s wearing an apron? Oh, god I am so FUCKED!_

“Good evening, Mycroft.” Greg cleared his throat lightly.

“Oh! Good evening!” Mycroft’s head popped up. “I… I actually lost track of time. Welcome to my home…” his eyes narrow at the bag Greg held, “Gregory! I told you, you needn’t br…”

“I know you said not to bring anything, but my mum has it too ingrained in me to never show up empty-handed. You’re powerful and all but you can’t undo a lifetime of my Mum.” Greg held out the bottle of wine. He could see Mycroft’s silent but impressed approval at his selection of the 2001 St Emilion, Bordeaux.

_Yes, Mycroft I actually listen to your preferences when ordering._

“I will concede to that higher authority, just this once. Thank you! Please place it on the counter to your left. I will decant it in a moment.” Mycroft sighed as though Greg’s mother had nothing better to do with her time than to throw a matriarchal wrench in his plans. “My hands are a little occupied. Can you around come to this side and reach into the pantry, the third door on the left, second down shelf from the center and retrieve a bag of the bread flour? I meant to get it before I got started, but then the call from Kore-- you don’t need to know about that...”

“Uh huh…” Greg shook his head amused at the purposely less than subtle retraction. He took his suit jacket off and hung it over the back of a stool before he went to the sink.

“Washing your hands when you come in from outside before you touch anything in the kitchen? Oh, Mother Lestrade trained you well indeed.” Mycroft nodded his approval as Greg passed. “Your left shoe needs tying.”

_Did he just check me out? No, don’t look, Lestrade!_

“Dumb shoe, fix it in a minute.” Greg washed his hands, “ _Mother Lestrade_? Really? You make her sound like a nun. I have two siblings; she still smokes like a chimney and her only habit is to sometimes prove she CAN make a sailor blush. Though to be fair, she’d run a nunnery just fine she put her mind to it.”

Mycroft’s eyes crinkled just enough to let Greg know he got the joke and shook his head to show how little he thought of it. “That is a horrid thing to say of a woman who raised a barrister, an educator and a well-respected officer of the law. Hurry, this dough is more wet than I want. I need the flour. Open it once you have it, please.”

“Right…” he pivoted and reached for the flour. “You forget I gave all three of them cause for despair in my misbegotten youth. It really could have gone either way.” Greg reminded Mycroft; the bag of flour in one hand as he opened it with the other, he turned to hand it to Mycroft, “It was a miracle I never got arrested for some of the shi…”

Greg tripped as he accidentally stepped on the loose string of his shoe. Because he was in mid turn his balance was thrown off. 

In his haste to right himself and not drop the flour to the floor Greg launched it the small distance to the island counter. Mycroft had turned at the sound of Greg’s distress to be at the perfect angle to be in the line of fire when the opened bag of flour landed on the counter with a thud that sent its contents upward in a cloud. A cloud that generously coated the part of Mycroft’s clothes not covered by the apron and part of his face.

Greg’s eyes went wide at the now flour bestrewn occupant of a minor office in the British government.

“Mycroft! I… Oh bloody hell! I… I’m sorry! I’m…”

“Gregory….” Mycroft gave Greg a most murderous look as he looked at the fine cloud that settled around him. “Don’t you dare la….”

Greg should have known better. He knew Mycroft had some of the wet sticky dough in his hands. The wet sticky dough that landed with a resounding splat on his face as the first snorts of laughter escaped him.

“No, you did NOT just do that!” Greg gasped in a stunned mix of amused and chagrined at the oh so satisfied smugness of Mycroft’s face.

It was pure vindictive spite that made Greg wipe the mess from his face with one hand as his other blindly picked up one of the small bowls on the island counter and flung its contents at the man. A barrage of sliced sun-dried tomatoes hit Mycroft square in his chest and raised a small cloud of flour.

Something cold and wicked shifted in Mycroft’s eyes.

“Oh, you bastard! No! NO!” Greg laughed even as he panicked. 

Well-respected Detective Inspector Gregory Michael Lestrade has stared down many a criminal in his career. He has chased criminals and fought hand-to-hand. He has fought criminals with knives to his baton. And in recent years has had to shoot criminals. And no matter how justified by law, much to his personal shame, he has had to kill. In nearly all of them he has looked them in the eyes unafraid.

Which is why Greg Lestrade will go to his grave not knowing why he did what he did. As he saw the devil rise in the eyes of Mycroft David Alexander Holmes he had only one discerning thought:

_Run!_

So he did.

Greg swiped the bag of flour on the counter at Mycroft sending flour all over and tore out of the kitchen.

“LESTRADE!”

Mycroft’s voice bellowed behind him, “Come BACK here!”

“Not on your life, Iceman!”

All he knew was that Mycroft was determined to catch him now that he ran, and he was just as determined to not get caught!

_Fuck! I can’t mess up his living room, he’ll kill me for sure._

He saw the answer on the right and took it.

_Yes!_

The disgusted look on Mycroft’s face at the sticky print left when his hand slapped upon the glass door of the lift surround was priceless. 

Greg had absolutely no idea what button he pressed until the lift began to rise.

Mycroft bared his teeth, his look turned pure predatory and he took off for the stairs.

_Oh fuck!_

The lift seemed to crawl as it rose. Worse he could hear Mycroft’s feet as they thundered up the stairs adjacent to the lift as it passed one floor without stopping and continued to the next before it opened onto a semi dark landing. There was residual lighting along the floor and walls, barely brighter than the average night light, just enough to keep one from stumbling in the dark. As he heard Mycroft’s rapid approach, Greg did not think about it and ran toward the first open door he saw.

_Bloody fuck!_

Greg panicked as his eyes adjusted to the dark room and realized two very important things.

He had to be in what was the entry to the master bedroom.

He no longer heard the footsteps of said master.

It was pure instinct that made him drop to a crouch as he sensed the attack, but it was not enough. His feet were already being swept out from under him.

Greg knew he rolled. He knew he had. Twice.

Yet he found himself pinned to the floor as much by Mycroft’s wild eyes as by the surprisingly strong hands that held his down by his head as well as by the weight of Mycroft’s body over his. He wondered if his own eyes looked as wild as they both panted in the insane adrenaline of the moment.

“Oh god!” Mycroft groaned painfully.

Greg felt it. He felt it before he knew he had and mentally braced himself without quite knowing why.

_A-ha! That’s tachykinesis!_

Greg felt it as whatever switch that had been turned on in Mycroft suddenly flickered out like a candle in a gust of strong wind.

_Mycroft!_

Greg blinked as Mycroft suddenly released him and clambered up away from him.

“I… I wasn’t…I’m not..” Mycroft turned in place, his agitation mounting.

“Mycroft?” Greg stood up worried, “What’s wrong?”

“You!” Mycroft looked to him as though Greg were an apparition, “You’re _here_!” one had gesticulated helplessly between the two of them and the room at large as if he did not understand why Greg did not understand. And wasn’t that a familiar feeling to the detective.

_Oh, you and Sherlock ARE brothers, that’s certain._

“I’m… I can’t do this. I’m not ready for this. I thought I was. I’m… I’m sorry, Gregory.”

“What?”


	5. When Reality Collides With Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg realizes Mycroft isn't ready when Universe attempts to gift the Iceman exactly what he's asked for...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

“What? What the hell are you talking about Mycroft?”

“You’re here in _this_ room! You can’t be here. Not yet!”

_Oh, I AM in his bedroom. Fuck! Does he not want me in here, or not at all? He’s about to freak out…_

“Mycroft…” Greg summoned the courage to ask, “Do you need me to lea… _”_

The residual lighting that softly illuminated suddenly went out. The room was thrown into near pitch blackness its only light coming from the moonlit windows too far away to be of much help by the door.

“Lestrade. Don’t. Move.” Mycroft’s urgent clipped voice warned. The near panic had fled, Greg blinked in the rapid change.

_What the…?_

Greg heard more than saw as Mycroft frantically patted himself.

“My mobile! It must have dropped. Give me yours now!”

Mycroft had reached in Greg’s pocket and already had the device in hand before the sentence was complete.

Greg started to reach out to unlock it for him, then its unlocked home screen came alive in Mycroft’s hand, its light harsh in the dark room.

_Holmes. I’m dealing with a Holmes. Yell later, find out what’s going on now._

Mycroft typed rapidly, his face a study in concentration in the mobile’s glare. Moments later the mobile rang, and Mycroft ran off a rapid-fire string of codes and phrases, the Iceman in full display.

_Whoa! How does he remember all that?_

“Stand. Down.” Mycroft took a few steps terse away from him, “Reconfirm imaging.” He spoke some more, “No, it was an accident.” The Iceman issued more codes at rapid fire. There was a back and forth of silence and Mycroft issuing commands before the lights came on again. “Confirmed…Yes, that will be all. Goodnight.”

Mycroft rang out on the line. His near panic from earlier was gone, but it was replaced by a barely suppressed annoyance as he again typed rapidly in the mobile.

_He is pissed off! Good! I can handle pissed off. Now what the hell happened?_

Greg instinctively knew Mycroft erased every trace of evidence of the last few minutes from the device before he stepped to him again, grabbed his hand and slapped the mobile in it.

“What the hell?” Greg nearly dropped the device from the force of it.

“An unauthorized person accessed the lift improperly and unwittingly stepped off unto the master floor which set off a series of silent alarms. The said master of such had lost his mobile in the chase of the unauthorized person and could not be reached. Security protocols were engaged. Worse because of where we stand, with my being right next to you, there was trouble differentiating our bodies in the thermal scan for identification, and thus the determination, of _my_ safety. Had I not used your phone and immediately issued stand down codes in indication of my well-being, and _not_ under duress, within another ten minutes, you would be dead.” Mycroft explained in a crisp clear tone. “When we shoot first, there’s rarely anything left to ask later.”

Though the lights were technically back on, they were back at the same level of semi-darkness they were before. Greg heard the absolute coldness of Mycroft’s words and understood.

_Oh. Fuck. "I" am what the hell happened. Shite. Occupant of a minor office in British government – my arse! He has protection!_

Mycroft stepped very close to him, his words at an edge, “When I say to you ‘come _back_ here’, that is what you do!”

“Understood,” Greg swallowed.

The two men glared at each other in the dark a moment before Greg spoke again.

“I guess this means there will not be a next time. I’ll take my leave then.”

“No!” Mycroft grabbed his upper arm as Greg started to turn away, “Don’t leave…”

Mycroft’s words went through Greg’s mind. “I can’t leave. I can’t stay _here_. You’re still covered in flour. What now?”

Greg heard Mycroft’s sigh of exasperation. “Walk. Do not run. _Walk_ down one flight. Take the door to your right, enter and lock it behind you. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Go.”

Greg followed the instructions to the letter and found the light switch.

_Oh!_

Most of the walls were lined near floor to ceiling with bookcases filled with objects de art, photos and of course books. A LOT of books. With its tall ceilings each wall had its own library ladder for access.

_This must be his office._

Greg made himself enter the room and look around.

It had the feel of a barrister’s office with its large, carved wooden desk and leather chair. A closed laptop, two other monitors, wireless keyboard and mouse, a note pad, two fountain pens with their respective ink jars sat upon an immaculate desk pad inlaid with marble and shell, and pieces Greg recognized as its own thing even if he could not name them, with a dark leather work area. A large globe of black and white marble demarcating land and water masses sat at one corner and a task lamp completed what was on the desk. Tufted dark leather chairs were in front of it. Behind the desk was a large framed painting of an older bearded man with very cold eyes. The familial resemblance was there in the eyes and the physical build. Mycroft had spoken of the man on occasion. Greg knew he looked at the infamous Uncle Rudolph Aloysius Vernet.

On the wall facing the desk was a fireplace with its own rich ox blood striped wing chairs, one of which had a small side table where a lamp and a decanter of liquor with a single snifter glass on a coaster beside it stood. A low ottoman was between the two chairs. He picked up the remote he saw on the side table and looked around as he tried to match symbols to functions. He pressed a button and the fireplace slowly roared to life. The very convincing looking logs in the real firebox and hearth belied its modernization.

On one side of the room was a bookcase and the heavy wood door in which he entered. Opposite it was a deep window seat bestrewn with various pillows under a multi-paned mullion-style window with stained-glass of the family crest and motto across the top. 

“ _Fide sed cui vide_.” Greg worked out the Latin.

_Faith…? No, trust… “Trust, but be careful whom” Yeah, that’s it. Oh, how fitting a motto for the Holmes boys._

A bookcase separated another multipaned window with a door that led to a balcony. Expensive area rugs over gleaming dark hardwood floors delineated the major areas in the room. A full suit of armor stood in a corner, the Holmes Crest of Arms seen in the window, also decorated the armor's shield.

The downstairs may be more inviting, and while no less beautiful and elegant, this imposing room was for serious work with breaks to rest one’s mind. Somehow Greg knew this is where Mycroft spent most of his time when here.

_I can easily see him seated at any of these areas, but alone, always alone._

Greg found himself drawn to the window seat that overlooked the balcony and the curated garden beyond. He smiled at the throw folded in a corner. The soft colorful knit squares had a homey feel that was out of place in the very staid room.

“Of course, _that_ would be the thing you gravitate to.” Mycroft entered the room, his voice mock groaned. He had changed into a deep grey sharkskin suit. Instead of a waistcoat, he had on a gorgeous cashmere turtleneck that matched the slate blue-grey of his eyes. It was an elegant casual Greg had never seen him wear before.

_Damn that was fast! Not even fifteen minutes. Stop the presses! He owns jumpers?! And he has the temerity to look just as good in them as he does in his button down! He’s in polka dot socks! Christ almighty! Those legs go on forever… So many sides to him… I want them ALL!_

The ferocity of the thought startled Greg, but he would not deny the truth of them.

_Get it together, Lestrade!_

Greg cleared his throat loudly and folded the throw as neatly as he found it and placed it back. “This is yours, from childhood isn’t it? I think I saw it in one of the pictures downstairs.”

“It is,” Mycroft confirmed as he reached for the light plate so that a few canned lights and the fireplace was the sole illumination in the room before he closed the door and locked it. The room went from imposing to quietly intimate with the change.

“Here...” Mycroft handed him the warm wet flannel he held and pointed to a spot on his face… “You still have some…dough…”

“Oh…! Thanks.” Greg gratefully wiped at his face where the remnants of dough had dried before giving his whole face a scrub as Mycroft walked to the nearly hidden bar area spotted in the corner.

“The once brighter colors are faded after all this time, but I was surprisingly grateful to Mummy who found it in the attic and brought it with her one visit. One of the very few things I brought over from my childhood home once I inherited this place from my uncle and had it redone.” Mycroft pointed to the portrait of the man behind the desk. Greg mentally nodded having guessed the identity correctly. “It was worth suffering through _Le Miz_ to have it. Libation? I apologize, I don’t have beer in the mini-fridge up here, but I do make a mean gin and tonic.”

“Yes, thank you.” Greg walked to the bar where Mycroft pointed to a bin for the flannel. “I am sorry about setting off the alarms.”

“I should have known if anyone was going to upset the equilibrium of the homestead it would be you.” Mycroft mused, “God knows you’ve upset my equilibrium since the day I laid eyes on – oh!” Mycroft froze.

_He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Now or never Lestrade._

“Mycroft…” Greg reached out and tapped the bottle of tonic water. “Talk to me, please… What happened up there? Don’t analyze, don’t think about it, just answer.”

Mycroft silently finished the drink and passed it to him.

“No. Talk to me. Where’s that bold man who nearly took me down in that hospital room with a kiss? I need him to talk to me….” Greg pushed the drink away untouched.

_I don’t know how much more of this back and forth I can take!_

“I have lived with this limerence of you for years, Gregory. Long before your divorce in fact.” Mycroft spoke at last.

“Before my divorce?”

“Yes. To be honest, I’m pretty sure the seed was first planted the day you informed me of a sexual act I could perform on myself with a steel pineapple the evening my team garnered your attention and brought you to me.”

Greg looked at him incredulously.

_Garnered my atten…? You bloody bastard!_

“You mean kidnap. You can say it, Mycroft. _Kid. Napped._ And don’t you dare say to me that no one forced me into that sedan when brutes the size of bloody tanks, who made no secret of having concealed weapons on them to an officer of the law, hold open the door and politely suggest compliance is in my best interest.” Greg rolled his eyes and took a sip of his drink.

_Damn this IS good!_

“As you wish…” Mycroft’s lip smugly quirked at Greg’s pleasure in the drink and gestured to the chairs by the fireplace.

_Wait… What did he just say? Since the kidnapping…? That’s as long as we’ve known each other! That long?! How?_

Greg also knew Mycroft read the astonished look on his face at his words as they walked to the chairs.

“You were happily married then and to a woman. I immediately put you out of my mind.” Mycroft answered the unasked question as they sat by the fire. He took off his suit jacket and draped it over the arm. He poured himself some cognac before he spoke again.

“Sherlock had, still has so few _honest_ friends, Gregory. People who genuinely care for him, you know this. I convinced myself, that I would not get in the way of that. But as we continued our association, you continued to fascinate me. The ease in which I found myself sometimes telling you things, personal things, surprised me. Things that never once came back from my brother’s mouth as I began to understand you were indeed trustworthy and as honorable as they come. We had known each other a couple of years by then. A true friendship I never saw coming bloomed between us. You were and are everything I never imagined existed. And I could not have you.” Mycroft gently swirled the liquid and sipped. “When your divorce came through, I thought of approaching you then, but I told myself I did not want to be a rebound. I would not risk it. Even then I knew… I _knew_ if I ever had a taste of you, it would be the ruin of me.”

_How did I not know any of this?_

And as if having heard the thought, Mycroft answered, “So, I continued to hide my feelings from you. I am the Iceman after all.” Both men gave amused sniffs at that. “I was both grateful and chagrined when Sherlock and I deduced that fling with DI Hopkins. I wouldn’t be a rebound, but she was a woman. And the next few you dated after her in that first year were women. I did not know what to make of that. And I could not ask. The question answered itself when you openly flirted with that cop from Glasgow three years ago.”

Greg smirked at the memory of the officer. “I had no real interest in MacLeod. I only flirted in your face to see what you would do. I thought I had sensed something then, but you did not rise to the bait. At that point I knew you well enough to know to someone as powerful as you could have anything in the world you wanted. I hadn't thought about what it would be like if you didn't know how to ask for what you wanted. I did not quite know you well enough to realize how deep you bury your heart under all that ice to your own detriment. I presumed what I sensed was wrong and a rough East Ender like me was not someone you would want. I did not outright ask because I did not want to lose the friendship if I was wrong. It took another year to figure you out and then another to call you out.”

“Neither did I want to lose the friendship.” Mycroft admitted, “When you served that ball, I was thrown. I had convinced myself I was not worthy of you. I have had any hope of there ever being an _us_ immured as impossible for so long… Now that it can be freed, I don’t know how to let it go... There is so much you still don’t know. Even now… the danger…”

“Mycroft, stop.” Greg put his glass down and stood. He ran a rough hand through his hair as he started to pace. “You’re not talking yourself out of this. I know what you do has no job title. It can’t. I know the immense pressures of it that weigh on you. I know you have likely done things, or had things done in your name, that would come in direct conflict of my position as an officer of the law.” Greg chose to ignore the minuscule twitch of Mycroft’s face, which he knew most would not notice, but gave veracity to what Greg knew he absolutely should not know about the man. “I know that there are things you will never share with me about your job. You have, can and will continue to lie to me by omission of those things work related. I get that is an unfortunate necessity for me to do my job, but I accepted that cross the first time I had to turn a blind eye for the greater good sometimes, even before I had to deal with Sherlock. I know you have enemies. I protect the city. You protect the world. But Mycroft… who protects you? Huh? I don’t mean your body. I mean _you_. Who?” 

Greg found himself by the window seat, so he sat.

“Just don’t lie to me when it comes to you and me, Mycroft, okay? Don’t lie to me about the important things for us. You talk about limerence, do you not think I have suffered in my own not so silent limerence this past year while waiting for you to pull your head out of your arse? I had almost given up on you until that kiss in the hospital. And last night’s kiss was wonderful. I won’t lie… I do want to go… further, so much further. But I can’t take you where you don’t want to go...”

“But I want to! That’s the problem!” Mycroft rose out of his chair in his own frustration. He looked frantically around the room as if in search of answers, “I want to so badly! I have never wanted anything or anyone so badly in all my life!”

Greg frowned, “Then I don’t understa…”

“It had been thirteen years, three months and eight days since I last allowed anyone to… to _touch_ me… Until you…”

The words were spoken so low that Greg had not been sure he heard correctly at first. Only the utter ridiculousness of such a precise number told him that he had.

“Thirteen…? You… You haven’t… You haven’t been in a relationship in thirteen years?” Greg had figured out long ago that Mycroft was celibate, he had no idea how long.

“No. I haven’t been in a relationship since I was twenty-two. It… was bad. I had sworn… _Never_ again.” Mycroft corrected.

_Oh, you haven’t had sex in thirteen years. You haven’t loved anyone since… Christ!_

Lost in the enormity of what Mycroft offered, Greg almost did not hear Mycroft’s next words.

“But now that I’ve had that taste of you, I don’t know how to live without more. I am _ruined_ , Grégoire!” 

_Grégoire. The correct French pronunciation of my name. He has never said it like that before. What does that mean?_

It was as if a veil was lifted as everything became incredibly clear to Greg.

“All these roadblocks. You… You must be… You’re TERRIFIED of me!”

“YES!” Mycroft exhaled in a rush of relieved breath that Greg understood him.

“And suddenly there I was… In your bedroom… Under you and we hadn’t talked.” Greg released his own relieved breath, “You needed me to know what I was getting into…”

“Yes!” Mycroft started to step forward but stopped. All the smooth confidence usually exhibited by the man shattered by uncertainty and awkwardness.

_He’s letting me see this side of him. How much he feels… Oh Mycroft!_

“But now I know…” Greg said softly, “ _Venez à moi_.”

Mycroft startled at the words.

“Come to me.” Greg repeated and held out his hand. “Come see how you have made ruin of me. _Je suis à ta merci_.”

“I have no mercy, Grégoire.” Mycroft took a tentative step toward Greg.

“Then surrender yourself to mine.” Greg held out his hand further and beckoned with his fingers until Mycroft stood in front of him, “I have enough mercy for both of us if you truly want it.”

Greg placed a hand on Mycroft’s cheek, the other on his arm and kissed him softly. "Forget about everything, except me, you and this moment."

 _“It’s been thirteen years, three months and eight days since I last allowed anyone to… to_ touch _me… Until you….”_

The words had reverberated in the back of Greg’s mind since Mycroft spoke them.

He let the thumb of the hand that cupped Mycroft’s face caress along the cheek bone. Without otherwise moving his hand, or breaking his gaze, his thumb caressed Mycroft’s forehead, Mycroft’s brow, he ran his thumb gently down the sharp nose and across the firm lips.

Mycroft had started to raise his hand and stopped himself. Greg gave a soft smile of approval and brought up his other hand and simply _touched_ him. Through the soft cashmere turtleneck Greg touched him. He knew Mycroft could feel his erection as it brushed lightly against him when Greg circled around and stroked his back, caressed his chest. He ran his hands down Mycroft’s arms, then slid them under the jumper and removed it. He tossed it behind him on the window seat as he circled back to the front, cupped Mycroft’s face and started touching him again.

“ _Grégoire_ …” Mycroft fairly thrummed, his fingers clenched and flexed desperate.

“Kiss me…” Greg whispered.

It was a sweet and soft kiss. Their lips barely brushed gently together. A soft sigh escaped from Greg, who had dreamt about this, fantasized about this for minutes and hours and days and years.

“Touch me…”

Greg could practically hear the thought of _Finally(!)_ from Mycroft as no longer tentative hands touched his waist and pulled him close.

Greg slowly turned and guided Mycroft backwards until he straddled Mycroft in the window seat. He tugged at the hem of Mycroft's undershirt and slipped his hand inside, his fingers in want of the flesh underneath. Mycroft followed Greg’s lead. He felt his own shirt pulled up and out of the waistband of his trousers, warm palms flat on his skin.

The feel of Greg under his fingers was some sort of catalyst as Mycroft’s kiss became more forceful. More demanding. Mycroft leaned backwards bringing Greg with him. A wanton moan escaped Greg when Mycroft dragged his hips slowly under Greg's body to better align them and then began to slide their achingly hard, still fully clothed, cocks together.

“Wait…” Greg gasped, as he planted both hands to the sides of Mycroft’s head and pulled away, “If we… if I… shite!” he could not seem to stop the roll of his hips against Mycroft’s hardness, “You probably… already know… but it…needs to be said… I’m… clean.”

“I know…” Mycroft stated matter-of-fact, between gasps, as he curved up to meet each roll of Greg’s hips, “Your last test was…with your physical nearly…mmmm…nearly six months ago…. and you haven’t been with anyone else…. in nearly two years. Oh…!”

“Really?” Greg shook his head, part annoyed, part amused, not in the least surprised.

_He at least has the grace to pretend to look abashed at knowing that._

“Apologies…?” Mycroft tried to look penitent and failed. 

Greg does not know when he began to push up Mycroft’s undershirt, but he could appreciate the moonlight that spilled through the window, the glass panes bisected the exposed skin of the body beneath him.

“You’re not sorry…” He ran his fingers under the hem and let them slide up through the fine hair of Mycroft’s abdomen and chest.

Greg leaned down and sucked a nipple through the undershirt as he rolled his hips again, delighted in the stuttered breath it caused in Mycroft.

“Not… Not in the leasssssst.” Mycroft hissed as Greg suck of his nipple turned into an increasingly firm bite, “Yessssssss…”

Greg smiled to himself.

_So, he likes a little pain. Good to know. What else does he like?_

“In reciprocal disclosure, I am clean also...”

_I would think so!_

Greg started to snicker, then Mycroft finished his sentence.

“…if we want to take this upstairs, now.”

Greg startled at Mycroft’s words.

“Are you… Are you sure…?”

Mycroft gently pushed until Greg got the hint and they both slid from the window bench so that they stood toe-to-toe.

Mycroft leaned in close, his breath tickled Greg’s ear as his smooth voice dropped to a level that drained what little blood left in Greg’s mind and sent it due south.

“Take me upstairs.” Mycroft whispered urgently.

Greg stepped back and studied the blown blue grey eyes that studied his in turn.

“ _Je suis prêt,_ _Grégoire_.”

_I am ready._

Greg’s tongue slid over Mycroft’s lips, then dipped into the warm wet mouth before he moved back, his hand still entangled in Mycroft’s undershirt.

“Then lead the way…”


	6. In The Pale Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg. Alone. Together. At last!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

It was a tangle of touches and tongues as they kissed and groped against walls, against stairs and each other. Greg's shirt was unbuttoned, removed and cast aside. Undershirts were pulled over heads and dropped to the floor and hands explored as they made their way upstairs.

“Shoes off…” Mycroft ordered divesting himself of his own footwear. Greg was grateful he had not worn boots as he toed his shoes off.

If there was going to be any protest it was cut off when Mycroft leaned into Greg and sank his teeth into a nipple even as he scrambled to divest Greg of his belt, trousers and pants that pooled at his feet. He pushed Greg’s hands away when Greg tried to return the favor, Mycroft was having none of that.

Neither man could have told you what wall it was that Greg shoved Mycroft against. Greg certainly enjoyed the sound of air that rushed out of Mycroft’s lungs when Mycroft’s back thudded into the wall in the sudden reversal of positions. The Iceman blinked as Greg's strong hands captured his and raised them until his wrists crossed over his head in Greg’s solid grip. When Mycroft tried to flex them, Greg gripped them tight and slammed them into the wall, a wicked look on his face in the dim light as he silently dared him to disobey. His free hand slid down, swiftly opened Mycroft’s belt and unzipped his trousers. Slowly he released Mycroft’s wrists that stayed in place as Greg completed the removal of Mycroft’s clothing and then his own. Only then did he let Mycroft’s hands down.

Mycroft gripped Greg by the back of the neck and dragged him into an insistent kiss while the other hands trailed all over the skin within reach.

A deep moan escaped into Greg's mouth as their cocks touched. Mycroft’s fingers dug into his sides as their now naked erections slid against other. The exquisite torture too much and not even close to being enough.

The kiss broke off as Mycroft breath became erratic panting.

“I… I’m not... I’m…not going to last...my god! _Please_!” Mycroft choked out desperately even as he continued to rut against Greg.

“I… I’ve got you…” Greg forced his hips to make space even as pulled Mycroft back in for kiss. He pulled Mycroft's hand between them to and wrapped it around both of their leaking cocks.

That was all the incentive needed. Greg squeezed his hand over Mycroft’s, finding a rhythm as they both thrust into their joined hands. He felt it as Mycroft’s thighs seized up and a desperate cry of Greg’s name escaped before he exploded between them. The feel of Mycroft’s come as it shot hot and thick between them was more than Greg could take and with a cry of Mycroft’s name immediately followed.

Only Greg’s desperate grip on the wall behind Mycroft and Mycroft’s equally desperate grip of Greg body that held his against said wall kept them upright until sanity returned.

“That was quite… quite spectacular.” Mycroft loosened his grip and ran his fingers along Greg’s sides.

“That was indeed.” Greg concurred. He reached down for his pants to clean them off.

Mycroft looked at him and started to smile. Greg realized after a moment that Mycroft was quietly laughing.

“And what is so funny?” Greg braced one hand on the wall beside Mycroft's head, the other traced his jaw line before he leaned into him, their foreheads touching.

“I had not realized I should have been more explicit in my request,” Mycroft tried to sound perturbed, it did not quite work

“What are you on about?” Greg grinned, amused solely by Mycroft’s mirth.

“When I requested to be taken upstairs, I did think you understood it meant to bed.”

Greg looked around and realized they had only made it to the doorway of the master suite. In fact, they were almost standing in the same spot where only an hour ago he was afraid the night had ended.

Greg’s eyes roamed the nude man in front of him.

_Oh, this night is only just beginning..._

“Clearly, I follow instructions,” Greg grinned mischievously, “So, tell me… What do you want _now?”_

“Take me to bed, _Grégoire_.” Mycroft’s breath ghosted across Greg’s lips, "And then… _take_ _me_."

A charged moment hung between them as they locked eyes.

Greg stepped back and held out is hand.

“Like I said before… _Lead the way_.”

Mycroft took the offered hand and led him into the bedroom proper. It was a mix of the inviting elegance of the living room and music room in its décor and linens which balanced the strong lines of the office that were reflected in the dark wood of the huge four poster bed and furnishings.

_Bloody hell, this room is half the size of my entire flat!_

Any other comparisons between homes dissolved as the moonlit through the sheers panels of the drapery found the lean lines of Mycroft’s body. The fine ginger hair of his chest and forearms stood out against the pale complexion, but it was the freckles so generously sprinkled across his arms, shoulders and upper back that stopped Greg in his tracks.

_Jesus he’s gorgeous!_

Mycroft turned a slight confusion at Greg having stalled. Greg could see the flush that pinked Mycroft at Greg’s open admiration of his body when that same moonlight revealed Greg’s slightly shorter and stockier form.

“Oh…” Mycroft breathed really seeing him.

Any misgivings Greg may have had about his dad’s body dissipated at the absolute hunger in which Mycroft stared at him. He knew it was matched by his own hunger as allowed his eyes to feast on the sight before him.

_Oh Mycroft! Thirteen years is far too long for all of this to have not been touched!_

“You… you have so many freckles…” Greg stepped to Mycroft and let his fingers trace patterns.

“A natural ginger’s curse – I’ve always hated them.”

“Why? They’re beautiful…” Greg asked genuinely confused, “There are galaxies here. I can draw constellations and never be bored…”

“Galaxies…? Constellations…?” Mycroft’s voice held doubt.

“Yes, constellations… this is Ursa Major…” his fingers traced a pattern along Mycroft’s shoulder, “this is Scorpius…” his fingers traced elsewhere “…here’s Orion….” that was traced by the tip of his tongue. 

Greg continued his touch fest of Mycroft calling out various constellations and then tracing the pattern with his fingers and tongue. He purposely avoided the thick proud cock that slowly resurrected and begged for attention.

Mycroft slowly backed up until they were by the bed.

Mycroft climbed on and Greg followed. At some point he heard Mycroft’s amused sniff that let him know the Iceman was quite aware Greg no longer had a clue to the shapes of the constellations he traced. Mycroft’s soft moans as Greg licked a pattern where they both freckles did not exist let him know it no longer mattered as they made their way to the center of the bed.

The bravado that pulled Greg to the bed leaves Mycroft as they lay side by side on it.

Greg saw something in Mycroft he had never seen before.

_He’s nervous. Thirteen years is a long time, Greg._

Greg felt the slight tremor that ran through Mycroft’s body as he reached out and caressed along Mycroft’s jaw. “There’s no rush, Mycroft. I promise I won’t be angry. It will not change what’s happening between us now, if you don’t want…”

“I want…” Mycroft sat up and leaned over to fumble in the nightstand drawer and placed a bottle of lube in Greg’s hand as response. “I want to very much…”

“I want to very much…” Greg echoed and captured Mycroft's mouth in a deep kiss before he rolled over onto him.

Greg peppered Mycroft’s shoulders and chest with kisses as he generously coats his fingers with lube. He flicked his tongue over a sensitive nipple discovered earlier and used the distraction to slip the tip of a finger inside. Mycroft froze, so did Greg.

“Don’t stop.” Mycroft breathed and pushed against the finger in want of more.

Greg kissed and licked his way down Mycroft’s body. His mouth full with the heaviness of Mycroft’s cock by the time he slid a third finger further inside and worked him open.

Mycroft panted heavily as he writhed on Greg’s fingers. “I... Please... I need… _Grégoire please!_ ”

Greg could not help but grin in the feel of knowing he has done this to this powerful man. He reached for a pillow and elevated Mycroft’s hips, then reached for the lube, popped the cover and coated himself generously under Mycroft’s hungry eyes.

Eyes that fell closed at Greg’s touch to Mycroft’s pale thighs that quivered when Greg spread them wider and pressed his cock at entrance in anticipation.

“Look at me.” Greg ordered gently, “I want to see you fall apart while impaled on me.”

Greg may as well have screamed it from the alacrity at which Mycroft heeded the order.

He locked eyes with the beautiful trembling sight before him and _pushed_. The tightness resisted for just a moment and then gave. Mycroft moaned loudly.

“Jesus Christ!” Greg froze at the tight heat.

“ _Grégoire…Please_ ” Mycroft begged again.

“Shhh! Easy… I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re… You’re not… You’re not hurting…me…. Oh!”

Greg nudged himself in slowly until his cock was completely engulfed in that tight heat as neither man could do anything but moan loudly for a moment. He slowly pulled almost fully out, then slid in again in one smooth thrust into the most exquisite sensation of his life.

_OhGodohgodohgodOHGODOHFUCK!!!_

_It’s like he’s made for me!_

“Fuuuuuuuuuck!”

Greg reveled in the first expletive he has ever heard from Mycroft’s lips.

Then Greg began to move slowly.

Mycroft released a deep guttural sound that went straight to Greg’s cock he wrapped his legs tighter around Greg by reflex.

Greg grasped Mycroft’s hips to hold him still and pulled out slightly before he rocked back in at just the right angle. And Mycroft’s words went completely inchoate only able to growl and moan.

Mycroft’s body clamped down on Greg’s cock as he neared orgasm. Greg grabbed Mycroft’s hand with his own and wrapped them tight around Mycroft's cock and arched up. He pushed Mycroft’s up into his fist, the erection slid back and forth through their slicked fingers, thick and wet.

_Neither of us are going to last much longer._

It was the last true coherent thought he had as it did not take long at all before Mycroft’s hips faltered, his moans loud, frantic and pleading.

Mycroft came with a scream, his thighs sprawled open boneless, eyes shut, mouth half open completely given to the moment and Greg continued to thrust through it. The spurts of come over their fingers finally pushed him to the edge.

The snap of Greg’s hips increased speed as he chased his own orgasm and pounded into Mycroft’s body all pretense of control gone until he also came, a shout of Mycroft’s name ripped from him and he collapsed over him in the aftershocks. 

Greg felt disoriented and almost drunk. Every centimeter of him felt too sensitive. He wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry, to scream, but most of all he did not want to break whatever magic he and Mycroft were experiencing as they had clutched at each other wordlessly. The only sound being their harsh panting as they tried to remember how to breathe again and the slide of their bodies against the linens as Mycroft pulled the duvet from under them to over them.

It took a few minutes, or perhaps a few millennium – Greg wasn’t sure, before the world righted itself once more and a languorous lethargic haze settled in his bones.

~~~~~~ 

The moon had set when Greg eyes fluttered opened to darkness in an unfamiliar room. Only the lights of London outside the window pierced the darkness. There were a few disconcerting seconds of confusion before he remembered. He was tired and muscles ached, but in a good way.

_The best way._

The reason why laid in his arms.

_Oh my god, I’m in Mycroft’s bed! He’s in my arms! And we… I can’t believe it!_

Nothing could have stopped the grin that spread across his face. Greg is about to drift off to sleep again, but felt the tension within Mycroft’s body curled within his arms.

_Almost nothing…_

His back to Greg, Mycroft was silent, but not asleep.

“Shh, you’re thinking too much…” Greg nuzzled close, “We’re finally here… Let it be…”

Greg practically heard it as the genius’ mind churned.

“What is it…? Tell me…” Greg ran a gentle hand through the dark hair with one hand as the other stroked Mycroft’s arm, the move as comforting to him as the man in his arms.

“This… what you’ve…done… It’s… _More_ …” Mycroft’s voice was quiet when he finally spoke, and timid in a way Greg has never heard. He turned his head away unable to finish.

_Yes…Yes, it is…_

“No, Mycroft… Not what I, what _we’ve_ done…is more than us just fucking to me as well.” Greg peppered the freckled shoulder with kisses and pulled him even closer, “So much more. This I promise...”

There was more to be said, but Greg felt as Mycroft’s reassured body relaxed into somnolence.

_Those words would have to be spoken another day, then…_

At the gentle pull of Morpheus’ call his body soon followed.


	7. The Calm Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's the morning after and Greg now has to face the ones who know what happened the night before...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

Sunrise found Greg waking to fantasy made real: wrapped in the arms of Mycroft. The two engaged in soft, warm kisses until Greg’s alarm on his mobile sounded minutes later, (“Henry Mancini, Gregory?” “What? I love _Pink Panther_!).

››TEXT›› 04:45: Outside master suite door. – A

_Oh dear God of course she knows!_

Greg groaned and showed Mycroft a text that greeted him when he shut off the alarm.

“I’m surprised she didn’t threaten you.” Mycroft quipped.

“She did.” Greg showed him the text that followed.

››TEXT›› 04:47: Remember: if need be, not even his brother will find your body. – A

“Are you surprised at either?”

“In retrospect? Not really, and I’m grateful, but I don’t have to like it. And you don’t have to look so smug over her threatening me.”

A suit bag, his suit bag, with a fresh change of his clothes, including socks and pants, and his toiletries taken from his flat awaited outside the master suite. It spared Greg from going commando and having to rush home to shower and change clothes before going to work.

It also afforded Greg a chance to have the most luxurious shower of his life. After he discovered just how much Mycroft enjoyed the feel of being marked as Greg’s territory, in inconspicuous places of course, they both had to go to work.

Still, they had to leave the master suite eventually.

“Why are you stalling, Lestrade?” Mycroft shook his head.

“Why _aren’t_ you stalling, Holmes?”

Mycroft sighed amused. "I can fire them."

“Show off." Greg grumbled. "Fine. Let’s get this over with.” 

Any sense of dragging his feet evaporated as they entered the kitchen and the scent of coffee had made his stomach growl loudly.

“Mycroft Holmes! I saw the photos. Don’t you EVER leave my kitchen in such a… Oh my!”

A statuesque brunette in her early forties prepared a cheese omelet at the stove started fussing at Mycroft as he appeared. She wore a professional all-black chef’s uniform with a “Kiss the chef OR ELSE!” apron.

_Whoa! She can get away with that._

She looked up when Greg’s belly announced his arrival and she spied Greg. She quickly caught herself before her jaw slackened.

“I…understand now, sir. Forgiven.”

Greg prayed he was not as red in the face as he felt under the woman’s open admiration.

Three women were in the kitchen. The woman cooking the omelette, Clemmons in an even more brightly floral blouse, and Anthea in her usual dark crisp suit, white blouse. The latter two sat at the breakfast counter. 

Like Clemmons, Greg instinctively knew the hazel-eyed woman at the hob was much more than a chef in the past.

_Christ! I haven’t felt this judged since the night I met Ingrid’s parents back in A-Levels!_

The chef blushed and quickly returned to the task at hand. She plated the dish and passed it to Clemmons who stage whispered, “Told you he was more dishy in person, Gabs.”

Now Greg knew he was as red as he felt as the flush rose. He glanced around the spotless kitchen. There was no sign of flour anywhere in the kitchen. He realized then that even the glass wall of the lift had been cleaned of Mycroft’s doughy hand print from the night before.

_Whoa, fast and efficient._

“Gregory Lestrade, this is Gabrielle Nesbitt, my chef who usually does not show up until noon once the schedule for the week is arranged on Monday.” Mycroft raised a knowing brow at the woman, “Your visit has made the rounds and your good looks have apparently gotten us a get out of jail free card from last night’s misadventures in kitchen décor.”

Mycroft was stoicism personified as though two grown men having a food fight was the most normal thing in the world.

_I’ll be damned if apologize given the outcome. I’m not sorry._

“Hugo and Fiona are having a late lie in as they were tasked with coming in early for the cleaning before it all turned to paste, sir.” Gabrielle poured tea into a cup, “I came in because some people rarely come to breakfast but on the chance of an evening where dinner was skipped for some reason and sustenance needed to be replenished after…”

“Understood, Gabrielle.” Mycroft cut her off and continued the introductions as he retrieved the cup of tea from Gabrielle and his mobile from his PA. “Gregory, you met Arianne Clemmons last night and of course you know Anthea who I presume has already rescheduled my 8:15.”

_So that’s how we’re playing this. Everyone knows, but no one talks about it. Okay._

“Good morning, sir, of course,” Anthea responded to her boss, “and I moved your 9am to 10 o’clock…in case more time was needed.” Her smile was all kinds of wrong as she pushed a mug of coffee toward Greg, “Good morning, Gregory.”

Mycroft and Greg exchanged a glance at the use of his first name.

_Hell is getting a little colder by the millennium._

“Good morning, Ms. Nesbitt, Clemmons. Thank you, Anthea.” Greg acknowledged them and then mock whispered to Mycroft, “you surround yourself with beautiful, but absolutely deadly women. I haven’t kissed the cook, is this coffee safe?”

Anthea sipped her tea and said nothing. Clemmons and Gabrielle chuckled, but neither offered him assurances.

“He is quite observant in his own way.” Mycroft scanned his mobile as he sipped his tea. “Neither have I, Gregory. You take your chances as I do.” Only the slightest twitch of his eyes gave away his amusement.

The cuff of his shirt slid back a little as Mycroft lifted the cup to his lips. Greg saw as Anthea’s eyes widened slightly as they flicked from Mycroft’s wrist and then to him. The bruising that formed where Greg had held Mycroft’s wrists to the wall was just visible.

She took another sip of her tea as she picked up her mobile, a small smile on her lips.

Greg’s belly announced itself again, so he took the opportunity to sip the coffee and look away.

_Bloody perfect!_

He sighed gratefully as the first swallows hit and did not kill him.

“Oh. bless you! Of course, you know how I like it.”

“Well _that’s_ a loaded statement…” Anthea teased as she tapped away on her mobile.

_Either Anthea did not see the dirty glare Mycroft shot her, or she’s ignoring it. No real heat behind his look, I suspect it’s the latter. Good._

“Zip it _She Who Shall Not Be Named_ ; don’t have enough coffee in me to deal with the likes of you.” Greg chuckled as he sipped.

He could not tell who of the other two women was more surprised. Apparently, they did not speak to Anthea like that or they were surprised he did.

“Well, _Edgar_ may not be a beautiful woman, but I think you know he is as deadly.” Clemmons smiled as Mycroft’s driver entered the kitchen, “Mornin’!”

Greg smiled to himself at the blatant change of subject as Edgar walked in.

“Mornin’ ladies. Mr. Holmes. Lestrade.” Edgar walked over and kissed Clemmons on the lips.

_Ah, they both live here. They’re together and Mycroft knows._

Greg marveled seeing this odd morning domesticity as household items were discussed. Mycroft was certainly the master of the house, but there was a certain relaxed atmosphere once Mycroft crossed the threshold that did not exist outside of the home.

_Even Anthea seems more at ease. Almost no sign of the infamous Iceman, and his frosty PA are present._

“While I do thank you for the coffee, _my_ schedule was not changed. I need to head out…still waiting for the Serbian shoes to fall I guess.” Greg quipped as he raised the mug to finish the coffee. When he lowered it, both Anthea and Mycroft were _not_ looking at him in a way that told him he was the sole object of their focus.

“Edgar, if you want, you may breakfast in. I have some work to do in my office here before I head out,” Mycroft said smoothly as he walked away. “Have a good day.”

“I’ll bring some pastries and a fresh pot up and another mug in a few minutes.” Gabrielle nodded.

“That will be lovely. Thank you, Gabrielle.” Anthea slid from her seat and followed Mycroft.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be ready whenever you are.” Edgar nodded and gave Gabrielle a peck on the cheek, “Food tax paid. Is my usual omelette too much to ask?”

Greg would have known to follow both at their sudden chill even if Gabrielle hadn’t included him.

_What the hell did I say?_

Greg frowned for a moment as he tried to assess why Mycroft’s usual smooth stride seemed off as he climbed the stairs ahead of them. He tried to keep a straight face as the answer dawned on him.

He tried to keep a straight face as he saw the surprise of it register on Anthea’s face when she noticed it as well and glanced at Greg knowingly.

Greg happily pulled out his mobile grateful for the diversion as it pinged; until he saw the text.

››TEXT›› 7:40: Your gait is also –different– I wonder why. Good job, Mycroft! –A

_Oh Jesus Bloody Christ!_

››TEXT›› 6:41: He looks happy. And -quite thoroughly- satiated. Very good job Lestrade! –A

He tried very hard to keep the smug pride from his face even as he blushed.

››TEXT›› 6:42: Who is this and where is the She Who Shall Not be Named that I know? – GL

He caught the flash of Anthea’s evil grin before she schooled her face once more and knew what was coming.

››TEXT›› 6:42: What I texted earlier this morning still stands. –A

››TEXT›› 6:42: Ah! There she is!

“If you two are quite done.” Mycroft rolled his eyes.

Greg finally straightened his face as they entered Mycroft’s office who locked the door behind them.

“What did I say?” Greg cut to the chase.

“Why Serbia?” Mycroft followed suit.

“Serbia…?” Greg frowned then recalled what he had said in the kitchen.

“Yes,” Mycroft had walked to his desk and leaned against it, “Why Serbia?”

Memory flashed of Mycroft laid out under the moonlight on the window seat.

_Was that really less than twelve hours ago?_

He knew Mycroft saw as Greg forced the memory and his eyes away to answer.

“I honestly don’t know. Maybe alliteration… Maybe Hopkins is still in my head…” he shrugged.

“DI Hopkins? What does she… Oh, her ex-brother-in-law…” Anthea looked up from her mobile as she took a seat in front of Mycroft’s desk.

Her laptop was open opposite of Mycroft’s. Clearly, she had been in the townhouse for a while to deliver Greg’s clothes and set up for work before she went down for breakfast.

“How do…?”

_Of course, they know about her from when Stella and I used to…_

“Never mind.” Greg dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

Greg told them of the feeling of the foreboding that had plagued him. And of the conversation he had DI Stella Hopkins regarding the underground stories coming from Eastern Europe.

“With the sole exceptions of yesterday and waking up this morning that feeling has been a constant of late,” Greg finished, “That’s it.”

None in the room gave voice to what had happened in the past twenty-four hours that changed his perspective.

“Apologies if I made it seem more important than it is,” Mycroft gave a wry nod, “You’ve worked with my brother and understand how sometimes the most random of information can link to something important. Like Sherlock, I thrive on data. I realize now it was nothing more than the usual susurrus that travels. It is your job to keep your ear perked for such as it may affect London, keep doing your job.”

And just like that the temporarily forgotten foreboding returned with a flash.

“Is there something _I_ should know?” Greg eyes flicked between Mycroft and Anthea.

“Not that I’m aware,” Mycroft shook his head with a wan smile. “It was your phrasing and specification of Serbia that intrigued me. I had to ask. Just keep doing your job.”

_Uh huh, okay._

Mycroft was still completely unreadable when he wanted to be. Anthea on the other hand, while exactingly tutored by her boss, was not her boss. Those same years spent learning Holmesian tells had made it easier for Greg to learn hers.

And after so many years Greg had learned to read that oh so brief pause in her typing meant that whatever was going on was something he was not supposed to know.

_Or really didn’t want to. He promised to tell me if it was important between us. I have to trust that._

Greg checked the time on his mobile, “Fuck, I really do need to go.” He opened the door and nearly collided with Gabrielle with the promised edibles, her hand raised to knock on the door.

“No breakfast?” She expertly balanced the tray without spilling a drop.

“Sorry,” he apologized as they traded places at the door, “Mandatory meeting with my team. Would look bad if I’m late, let alone not there at all.”

“Understood…” Mycroft stood. He clearly wanted to do or say something, but not with the two women around.

“No stay, you two keep working. My bags are by the door, thanks for that by the way Anthea. Mycroft, we’ll touch base later. I’ll use the stairs and not set off anymore alarms.” Greg gave everyone a smile and headed down.

“Lestrade… It was a pleasure.” Clemmons met him at the bottom of the stairs and handed him his jacket and trench coat, “I do hope it’s one we get to repeat.”

_Wow!_

“Thank you,” Greg smiled genuinely touched by the sincere sentiment as they headed to the front door. “Only time will tell, but that is my hope as well.”

“Gregory!”

The sound of rapidly running footsteps made Greg stop as Clemmons put her hand on the doorknob.

_Mycroft._

“Wait.” Mycroft took a couple a couple of breaths. “You forgot something, Gregory.”

Clemmons started to walk away. Greg knew some silent signal passed from the master of the house to her when she gave a slight nod and stayed in place as Mycroft approached.

Greg did a mental check. He knew he had everything he needed with him.

“What did I forg…?” The end of the question was interrupted by Mycroft’s finger on his lips.

“You forgot your own rule, _Grégoire_ …” Mycroft whispered against his ear. “When it’s just you and I, don’t let you walk away from me without a kiss ever again. We're in this house - it's just you and I.”

"Understood." Greg grinned in remembrance as Mycroft’s fingers were replaced by Mycroft’s lips.

The kiss started off shy, there was a witness after all, but it did not end that way.

It was one thing to somewhat boldly come downstairs to breakfast with the household knowing Greg spent the night. They had shown no sign of it once they left the bedroom. Greg understood the kiss was as much a message for his benefit as for Mycroft and his staff. 

_It was a message that Mycroft will not be but so shy about it, at least within THESE walls. We're not going public._

Mycroft caressed Greg’s cheek as he pulled away, “I will call you later.”

“Until later then…” Greg smiled as he watched Mycroft walk away.

“Wonders never cease” Clemmons whispered in awe as she opened the door, “Have a good day, Lestrade.”

“It already is, Clemmons. It already is.” Greg grinned as he left.


	8. The Shoe Falls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a wonderful night and early morning with Mycroft, and a surprise from a certain consulting detective, it should have had Greg all but forget about the past couple of weeks and the sense of foreboding that followed him, but no. The universe didn't forget and it's about to remind him it's not paranoid if it's true...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The events in this chapter take place:
> 
> during [Chapter 10 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23643112/chapters/59319631)in the "And that's Showbiz... Kid." timeline.
> 
> after [ Chapter 14 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24189973/chapters/62880325) in "The Life You’re Living, The Life You’d Like" timeline.

During the team meeting in his office a large bouquet of white orchids had arrived. The bouquet was so large the delivery person’s face could not be seen.

Greg did not recognize the voice, but he recognized the coat and the curly head.

“Sherlock?”

“I’ve come to apologize for the unfortunate suffering of knowing me has brought upon you.” Sherlock lowered the flowers enough so his face could be seen above the foliage.

_Oh God he knows about Mycroft and I already? How?_

“Sherlock I… What are you playing at bringing me flowers?”

“You? Oh for God’s sake, Graham, get over yourself! They’re not for you they’re for Sally! I was told she was here.”

“What?!” several voices exclaimed over each other, none of them were Donovan’s who was rendered speechless as the room soon became.

››TEXT›› 8:37: Why is Sherlock delivering flowers to Donovan? – GL

››TEXT›› 8:41: He’s doing WHAT? Donovan? – JW

››TEXT›› 8:41: He’s here at NSY and just hand delivered beautiful flowers to Donovan! – GL

››TEXT›› 8:42: I’m at surgery and a patient is about to walk in. I know nothing about it. Keep me informed. – JW

››TEXT›› 8:42: Will do.

“How can I begin to apologize, Sally? Simply saying I am sorry does not seem enough, even to my jaded eyes. I AM sorry. I crossed a line, a huge one and in my pride refused to acknowledge it then and there though I realized just how wrong I was the moment before Greg and John yelled at me. I know flowers are trite sentiments that won’t get me out of the doghouse I rightfully deserve to be in for my most abominable behavior to you, but I hope they can be the first step. I truly am sorry.”

The first time Greg heard Sherlock sincerely apologize to someone he insulted was Molly. It surprising then, considering how little Sherlock and Sally thought of each other, it was shocking now.

››TEXT›› 8:45: Sherlock just apologized to Donovan. In front of everyone.

Sherlock held out the bouquet to her. Sally crossed her arms blatantly not taking the flowers.

“They’re white orchids. They’re for…” Sherlock started,

“They’re for regret and forgiveness. My great aunt worked in a florist shop, I know…” Sally found her voice at last and it was mad, “Why would you do this here of all places? I don’t believe you. You just want back on the cases.”

Greg knew she was trying to hold her anger. It was less than forty-eight hours ago. Sherlock’s words had only taken a minute to say, but the hurt they caused would last so much longer.

“Guys, let’s clear out, give them some…” Greg stood ready to chase everyone but the two of them out of his office. 

“No. Everyone, stay, please…” Sherlocked stopped him and sighed softly turning back to Donovan, “Sally, I understand why you would think that. And that I deserve it. To answer your question, I _had_ thought of sending these privately to your home and apologizing to you alone, but that would be cowardly. I gravely humiliated you in public, in front of your colleagues. It seemed only fitting my apology follow suit.”

“Holmes, you’re a bully and…”

“Donovan, we’ll be here for an hour if you list all my faults,” Sherlock acknowledged.

“I don’t want to forgive you, you bastard!”

“You know I have an older brother; I assure you my parents were married at my conception and birth.”

“Oh, for heaven’s…!” Sally threw up her hands and looked to her colleagues as if to say _See?!_

“Sherlock!” Greg groaned at the same time.

_Now is not the time to be dense!_

“What? I know she’s infuriated with me, but I will not have my parents name disparaged because of my ill behavior. Knowing me, in the future I will add more fuel to the fire with my complete lack of tact…”

“No lies there!” Sally rolled her eyes.

“Exactly. I am rude, obnoxious, arrogant insulting and so many other things, I have not the patience to list, but have I _ever_ lied to you?”

Sally was silent. Greg could see how she thought it over. Even he knew the answer.

“No, you have not.” Sally admitted quietly.

“I’m asking for your forgiveness and you have every right not to grant it. It does not negate my sincere regret for what happened.” Sherlock said just as quietly. “If you don’t want the flowers, I’ll bin them and leave, but I am sorry regardless.”

“You do that, then.” Sally crossed her arms and huffed unyielding.

There was a moment of silence in the room as the two stared each other down.

“Okay, then…” Sherlock bit his lip. The hurt of the dejection was fleeting, but Greg saw it as Sherlock resigned himself to take his lumps.

_You brought it on yourself mate._

Sherlock turned to do just that. He walked over to the nearest bin and was just about to release them from his grasp when Sally stopped him.

“Sherlock, wait!” She stood and walked over to him. “It’s true. Infuriatingly true. You have never lied to me. So, I have to believe that your regret is real and that your apology is too.”

“It is true. They are real.” Sherlock said quietly, but still held the flowers over the bin.

Sally looked to Greg who made no moves to assist her. He knew Sherlock meant it, but he also knew Sally couldn’t forgive him, not yet if ever, the hurt was too fresh.

“I can’t say forgiveness, Sherlock, I can’t. I’ll call it acceptance for now and…we’ll see.”

Sally held out her hands for the flowers. Sherlock gave them to her.

“Thank you for the flowers, Sherlock.”

“Thank you for accepting them.” Sherlock gave a nod and turned to leave as Sally left the office and took the flowers to her desk.

“Sherlock…” Greg called after him before he cleared the door.

“Lestrade…” Sherlock stopped and turned back to him.

“While your apology to Sally helps, it has no bearing on your banishment from my crime scenes until I’m ready to let you back in.” he reminded the genius.

“I did not think it would.” Sherlock smiled ruefully about to leave again when he stopped, turned and looked hard at him.

“Get your reports in in a timely fashion, guys. The CS jumps all over my shit again, you’re not going to like I roll downhill on you.” Greg waved a hand to the others still there in dismissal, then looked up at Sherlock, “What?”

“I couldn’t quite tell before there too many frankly putrid scents clouding it.” Sherlock gave a gentle sniff, stepped further into the office and sniffed again.

“Couldn’t quite tell what?”

“You…changed body wash.” Sherlock practically purred.

_Bloody hell, here it comes._

“Yeah? I was at a…friend’s place. I didn’t pack mine and used theirs. Problem?”

Greg could see as the wheels turned and knew Sherlock knew, Greg raised a brow that all but dared him to say something.

“Smells good on you, Lestrade. Your…friend has expensive tastes. You should have your…friend get you a bottle. Or get invited to your…friend’s place overnight more often. Well must be off now…”

Sherlock turned and left the office with Greg utterly slack jawed.

~~~~ 

››TEXT›› 9:31: Your brother left my office a while ago. Is Sherlock dying? – GL

As he expected it to, Greg’s mobile rang a moment later.

“What are you on about, Lestrade?”

“Is your brother dying? Is something serious on with Sherlock?”

“What did he do now?” Mycroft groaned.

Greg could hear the dread in Mycroft’s voice. He quickly relayed the Sherlock’s apology to Donovan to Mycroft.

“Ah, I see. I figured another 24 hours before it happened. And John did not know? The man child is growing up some.” Mycroft mused when Greg was finished.

“I’d say. He didn’t rake me over the coals when he deduced me.” Greg concurred, then told Mycroft about the body wash and Sherlock’s surprising reaction.

“I did say this morning that the body wash blended well with your natural body chemistry, Gregory.” Mycroft sighed, “No, he knows raking you over the coals right now won’t get him back on cases. He has not called me yet. He’s saving it for something special to torment me. As if we do not give each other enough fodder.”

Greg could hear the tiredness in his voice. “Anything I can do make you feel better?”

“Several, but I have a 10 o’clock and I sincerely doubt that Liz would want to be witness to the acts. At least I hope not.” Mycroft quipped.

Greg just barely held his snicker at the thought of the queen as observer.

“Acts? Plural? Dear god, what satyr have I awakened?”

“Do your job, Lestrade.” Mycroft sighed again, but this time Greg could hear amusement in it.

“And then hopefully you and some of these _acts_ later?” Greg couldn’t resist.

“That I do hope, you incubus…. Later Gregory.”

~~~~ 

“You’ve been in something of a mood this morning, boss.” Sally Donovan walked into his office and closed the door an hour later.

Gregory Lestrade bit his lip to stop the biting snark that wanted to drop. He knew she only approached him out of concern, and she was in fact correct.

_Last night was… everything. I should be happy! Ecstatic!_

“Ever have a feeling something big was on the horizon, a foreboding, yet you can’t quite put your finger on exactly what?” he leaned back in his chair, the point of his pen a rapid staccato on his desk.

“Something wicked this way comes?” she sat in one of the chairs in front of his desk, “Is Holmes on his way in again?”

“Donovan…” warned.

“I know. I know. Sorry.” She threw up her hands in surrender as they both glanced at the bouquet on her desk.

Greg knew it was only a matter of time before something major blew up between them once more. In the interim he was going to keep the peace the best as he could.

Sally was mostly correct. She had no way of knowing that it was not Sherlock Holmes that had him in snit.

Greg remembered the fleeting look on Anthea’s face when Mycroft denied knowing anything.

_He’s lying by omission. How bad is it going to be?_

“Sherlock called gut instinct information the universe is giving you faster than your mind can process. I get it when comes to work. This is something else.” Greg bit his lip as he dwelled on it. “It’s been a good couple of days, but I can’t shake this feeling of ominous quiet before the storm.”

It’s the same bad feeling he has had for the past few weeks. At first, just a feeling something was off. Something he dismissed. Now he could not. It rankled him as he waited for that shoe to drop. Too many little things he could not pinpoint, just knew that first shoe was going to be really bad.

_And what of the second shoe?_

Greg was not aware of the sound the pen made as he relentlessly tapped until he noticed the sudden silence of its absence when Sally reached over and stilled his hand.

“It’s a quarter of eleven. I know you’ve been in this office nearly three hours. You did not come in with breakfast and I have not seen you take a break to eat.” Sally took the pen from his hand and laid it down.

Greg looked down at the angry dark indentations on his notepad and gave Sally a sheepish look as his belly chose that moment to make its emptiness apparent. “You know, you’re not half bad at this detective thing, Donovan.”

“Uh huh.” Sally chuckled good-naturedly as she stood, “No wonder you’re all doom and gloom: you need to replete your caffeine intake, pronto. Go get something before your caffeine withdrawal kicks in. I remember the last time, boss. We don’t need that kind of negativity in our lives… Again.”

As confirmation of Sally’s words, his stomach protested yet again. It was true. He barely made it to the office in time for the meeting. Then Sherlock showed up. The chief superintendent called. Then one of his confidential informants wanted to talk. Then… Then… Then…

Greg remembered he and Mycroft never did have dinner. That meant he had not eaten a solid meal since an early lunch the day before.

_Brilliant Greg! No wonder you’re grouchy and with a headache._

“You win, Sal. I’ll go to the cart downstairs and get something. I can’t do a vending machine.” Greg stood.

“That’s a good boss.” Sally teased as she stood as well.

Some forty-five minutes later Greg had his feet up on his desk. A fresh coffee in one hand and a just bitten into pastry in the other when Sally opens his door.

“Sir, there’s been a break-in.”

“Not our division.” he answers her with a mouth full of food.

“You’ll want it.” she intoned.

Tower of London.

Bank of England.

Pentonville Prison.

As he and Donovan entered the White Tower and rushed to the room holding the Crown Jewels, Greg knew.

Before he even saw the face previously only known to him in pictures, Greg knew.

When a far too calm Jim Moriarty was escorted to the waiting police car, Greg knew.

While he reviewed the security tapes with the consulting detective and read the smiley faced “Get Sherlock” in the glass, Greg knew.

_The shoe had fallen._


End file.
